


Shake Off Your Flesh

by Goddessofpredators



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Punisher (TV 2017)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Alternate Universe - Zombie Apocalypse, Alternate Universe - Zombies, Anal Sex, Bittersweet Ending, Blood and Gore, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Death, Child Death, Falling In Love, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Heavy Angst, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Inspired by The Walking Dead, M/M, Meet-Ugly, Slow Burn, Suicide, Tender Sex, but also heavy fluff so it balances out, it ends on a mostly high note I promise, two boys trying their best, zombie-typical gore, zombie-typical violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-26
Updated: 2019-10-26
Packaged: 2021-01-03 10:03:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 41,411
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21177614
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Goddessofpredators/pseuds/Goddessofpredators
Summary: Months after a vicious disease ravaged its way through human-kind, Bucky Barnes wanders alone, scavenging what he can to keep himself alive. He stumbles upon another survivor, but when their temporary camp is overtaken by the dead, he and Frank Castle have no choice but to hit the road together in search of a safe place to stay. They travel miles, meet some new faces, and maybe, just maybe, fall in love along the way.Or; Bucky and Frank develop Feelings in the midst of the zombie apocalypse and have to figure out what to do with them while they try to keep themselves alive.





	Shake Off Your Flesh

**Author's Note:**

> IT'S HERE!!! I'm so excited to finally be able to share this with you all, it was a serious labor of love for sure and I had an absolute blast every second I spent writing it.
> 
> A million thank you's to the immensely wonderful [Cara](https://twitter.com/AyeWriteCara) for the beta work, without whom this fic would not be nearly in as good of a shape as it is.
> 
> This was written for the [Spooktober Challenge](https://twitter.com/spooktoberchal1) on Twitter, and my prompt, obviously, was zombie apocalypse, which I grabbed with both hands and completely ran wild with. I really hope you love the fic as much as I do, and I thank you from the bottom of my heart for taking the time to read it. Enjoy~

Unforgiving sunshine in a cloudless sky. 

It might as well be his worst enemy as much as it’s his closest friend, beating down with no mercy and baking his skin until it burns. The stink of decaying flesh lingers harshly in the air, sped up by the heat. It’s something Bucky never thought he’d have to get used to in his life, and yet here he is, gravel and dust crunching under his boots as he steps over the skin-and-bone remains of a dead crow. 

It’s only been a few months since the disease bowled over any and everyone in its path, but already it feels like decades he’s been going along like this; silence and scavenging is his new day to day, seeking shelter in any closed, abandoned squat he can find that’s not overrun by the Resurrected at night. He wonders sometimes, how long he can keep this up. How long he’ll be allowed to go before he gets dragged down with the rest of them, or he gives in and finds his own way out. He never lingers on those thoughts for long. One foot in front of the other, that’s how you make your way, just like his dad had told him. And he listens. He’ll listen until his feet bleed and beyond. 

Ahead of him, buildings, wavy with the warmth, begin to rise into view. 

He squints. 

It’s a shopping plaza of some kind, several structures scrunched up close together in a half square. He can make out a few cars rusting in the parking lot, and he picks up the pace. 

It’s not too bad when he gets up close and personal with it all- the buildings aren’t too rotted out save for one small shop at the end, but the main structure looks stable enough, and he hightails it towards the entrance. The corpse in the driver's seat of the car he passes stares off with unblinking eyes. 

He grits his teeth as he pries open the once automatic doors, and grunts with the strain to close them back after he’s inside. Turning to face the bulk of the place, he gazes off into the dark. It’s a nice reprieve from the late August weather, but not by much- the power had run out in here ages ago, and the shade provides only a subtle comfort. Bucky doesn’t mind it too much, preoccupied instead with what those shadows could be hiding. 

His fingers brush against the handle of the knife on his belt, and he slinks forward. 

A shoe store to his left, a small clothing outlet to his right. He scopes out the clothing outlet and ducks inside. Not much has been taken- most of the clothing is still on their hangers and shelves, waiting for customers they’ll never see- and Bucky gets the feeling this might be one of the few places in the world that hasn’t yet been ransacked by looters. The mere notion of it sends a delighted shiver up his spine, and he doesn’t try to repress his grin as he strolls through the racks, raking his fingers over some of the first clean fabric he’s seen in weeks. 

He stops to thumb through a few shirts and holds them up to his chest to check the size, then slings them over his shoulder once he’s satisfied they’ll fit. The pants are more of a guessing game, but he grabs a few pairs of the same sized jeans and a pair of cargo pants with a couple of extra pockets that look like they’ll fit the bill and continues on his way. A baseball cap gets placed atop his head, a pair of expensive sunglasses he could never afford in a past life over his eyes, and he rummages around until he finds a sturdy looking duffle bag to stuff everything into. Slinging it over his shoulder, he heads back out into the main hub and makes his way slowly and quietly towards the back of the building. 

He detours when he catches sight of a little candy shop down one wing. All of the candy is out of date by months, but he couldn’t give less of a shit; he stuffs his face with the ferocity of a starving animal, handful by the handful, moaning at the taste. Tears prick at his eyes, halfway broken down at the flavor of something other than canned slop and stale crackers on his tongue. He glances around and finds a small soda machine near the check-out counter, and he hurries over with a fistful of Swedish Fish and gummy worms dangling between his fingers. 

The drinks are hot and flat but he chugs one down in five large gulps anyway, sucking in a deep lungful of air once he pulls the bottle away from his lips, then shoves three gummy worms into his cheeks and grabs for another. It’s a wonderland, but he knows it won’t last. He needs real food, water. But a few extra sweets wouldn’t hurt anything. 

He shoves in a few sodas and bags full of candy into the duffle alongside his clothes, and moves on. There’s a few drink machines outside in the main corridors, and he takes what he can get from those too- waters, thankfully, and Gatorades and fruit juices and more fizzy drinks. It weighs down the bag on his shoulder and he licks his lips, forces himself to prioritize what he can fit into such a limited space. He walks up and down the desolate halls on silent feet until he comes to a stop before a nature supply store, and his grip on the duffle strap tightens. 

Bingo. 

He strides down row after row, grabbing flashlights, a new knife, a med kit. His eyes flit over the shelves, and he pushes things around, searching. 

Guns. Guns, where are the guns? Guns and ammo- he almost yelps, but strangles it down to a gasp. 

Near the back corner, in locked cabinets behind a counter: guns. Lots and lots of guns, hung up on display like trophies. Bucky really could cry now, and he pats at his pants with a shaky hand and throws his beat-up, half-broken pistol to the floor with a clatter before climbing over the counter. 

The lock on the cabinets is turned when he reaches for it, and it makes him pause for a moment, but he pushes it aside and swings the door open anyway. Christ, he feels more like a kid in a candy shop than he did in the actual candy store. A few of the racks hang empty, but Bucky pays it no mind and reaches for a SIG, weighing it in his hand. It fits like it was meant to be there, and he smiles to himself. 

Fuck everything he was thinking before, his special angel must be standing over his shoulder today. 

He roves his eyes around and finds the ammo in the counter, which, he sees with furrowed brows, is unlocked as well. But not much seems missing like with the guns, so Bucky huffs, ignoring the siren blare in his head that something is up and grabs for a box. 

A quick peek outside the shop shows the coast is still clear, and he wanders back out into the open. It’s darker now, he finds. The sun filtering in through the large skylight above is dim, melting orange and pink where it once was a bright gold. Bucky stares with his neck tilted back and clenches his jaw, then sighs and drops his head, looking around. It’s a shelter, at least, but it’s far too open. Any Moaners out and about, if they could even find their way inside, wouldn’t have much trouble spotting or sniffing him out here. Best to camp out in a shop for the night, he thinks, and glances back over his shoulder from where he just came. 

Surrounded by guns and enough ammo for a small platoon. Not a bad way to spend the night. 

He makes the short trek back to the nature supply shop and grabs a tent from one of the shelves, then hunts around for an open spot to set it up. He sticks near the counter at the back, just in case, and wanders over to a far corner within sprinting distance of the gun cabinet when he stops, tense, because someone’s already beaten him to the punch. 

There’s a small tent pitched against the wall in the dark, surrounded by empty cans of food and a half full bottle of water. Bucky stares, and slowly exhales when he realizes he hasn’t been breathing. Well, he tries to rationalize, if something had been in there, it would’ve easily noticed him by now. So he drops the tent he grabbed, takes his newly acquired gun in his hand, and creeps ever so slowly forward. 

The tent flap is unzipped and he sticks the muzzle of the gun in first before he rips it open to find- nothing. A sleeping bag and a rolled up parka as a crude pillow, but empty otherwise. 

Bucky sags, closes his eyes for a beat and breathes a stuttering inhale, then stuffs the gun into the back of his pants. Whoever set this up must be long gone by now, he figures. He slings his duffle to the ground and crawls inside, sitting on the sleeping bag with a gentle huff, and removes the glasses and hat and places them on the floor off to the side. As he tips himself sideways to rest his head on the parka, eyes fluttering shut, he can’t help but wonder why they would just leave all of this stuff here and ripe for the taking. 

-

The sound of shuffling is what wakes him. 

He hadn’t even realized he’d fallen asleep- the exhaustion that’s made its home in his bones must have overtaken him once his head had hit the parka- but he’s wide awake now, eyes singling in on the partially open entrance to the tent. 

There’s footsteps, quiet, but in the absolute silence of the store it’s all he can hear besides the beat of his own heart in his ears. His whole body is tense, and his hand slowly slides towards the SIG shoved in the back of his worn jeans. He strains his ears, listening; the footsteps aren’t stumbling or dragging, they walk with a purpose, defined in where they want to go. A human, he realizes. One that’s coming straight for him. 

He adjusts his grip on his gun and gently pushes himself upright, inhaling as softly as he can through his nose. The footsteps grow louder on their approach until they’re on top of him, and then a hand is reaching in, peeling back the flap of the tent and giving Bucky a full view of the person on the other side. He’s hot as hell, is the first thing Bucky notices even if he wishes it wasn’t. Hot as hell with a pistol in his left hand. 

They both stare, each frozen in place and wide eyed. And then the man goes to lift his piece, but Bucky beats him to it, firing off a shot that goes buzzing past his ear. The guy curses and ducks out of the way, and it allows Bucky the chance to scramble out of the tent. He makes a break for the counter and zig-zags to avoid the bullets whipping their way around him, turns to send back his own with an aim he knows goes wide by a mile. 

The counter doesn’t offer much protection once he dives behind it and he clutches his gun in trembling hands, sucks in deep, sharp breaths and tips his head back against the glass. He can hear the other guy creeping around, probably looking for a good angle. He must find one because the next second later a shot rings out and the glass around him shatters with the impact, dousing him in shards that scrape at the skin of his cheeks and the exposed flesh of his arms. He yelps, ducking off to the side and backing himself back up against what’s left of the counter’s display case. 

“Stop!” he yells, voice wavy and weak as he fights to get a good breath with the adrenaline that’s raging through his veins. The other guy tiptoes closer and squeezes the trigger again, smashing the glass to Bucky’s right. Bucky grits his teeth and fights the urge to curl in on himself.

“Goddamn it, listen to me!” he snarls, then gives it a beat. Nothing happens, but he can make out the faint sound of heavy breaths somewhere behind the counter, and he closes his eyes, begs anyone, anything, that he won’t die here today. 

“I’m going to get up now, okay?” He says after a moment, then pauses. Still nothing, so he continues on. 

“I’m going to get up, and I’m going to put down my gun. I don’t want to hurt you.” He licks his lips. “I really hope you don’t want to hurt me, either.” 

Sliding open his eyes, he steels himself, and flicks on the safety. 

“I’m standing up,” he calls, then does as he says, slowly, slowly raising himself, back towards the rest of the shop and arms held out beside his head. 

He fights to control his breathing, slow the race of his heartbeat as he takes his time moving his arm to lay the gun down on the counter behind him. He hears shifting, and he lifts his hand again, then turns around. The other man has moved out from behind the cover he’d taken and stands before Bucky now with his own piece pointed at Bucky’s head. There’s a look in his eyes, something wild and untamed that sends electricity up Bucky’s spine, but he holds fast. 

“I’d like you to put that gun down, please,” he says, and it comes out stronger than he thought it would, given his current state. 

The man eyes him, and after a beat he listens and lowers the gun towards the floor. Bucky, finally, lets himself breathe. 

“Thanks,” he says, but the man barrels over him. 

“What the hell are you doing in here,” he rasps, and something zings inside of Bucky at the intensity of it. 

He swallows and flits his eyes in the direction of the tent. “Napping, apparently, until you showed up.” 

The guy’s lip twitches slightly, almost like a snarl, and Bucky gets the feeling he’s trying to make conversation with a ticking time bomb. 

“That’s my tent,” the guy says. Bucky flicks up his brows. 

“Yeah,” he replies, “I kind of noticed.” 

The other man scoffs and shakes his head, looking away for a beat. His trigger finger taps wildly against the side of his gun all the while. 

“You need to leave,” is what he finally says, and Bucky barely holds himself back from balking. 

“You’re fucking kidding,” he says and drops his arms, even though the look in the guy’s eyes indicate he is not, in fact, kidding. “Are you out of your mind!? You know I can’t go out there, that’s a death sentence.” 

“Not my problem,” says the man, who makes his way over to the tent, dumping the little sack around his shoulder onto the floor in front of it. This time Bucky does balk, moving around the side of the counter towards him. 

“It will be when undead me breaks my way in here to kick your ass,” he says, and the guy lifts his head and levels him with an unimpressed glare. 

“Come on,” Bucky begs, “Just one night. One night and I’m out of your hair, you never have to see me again.”

“Good,” the man grunts under his breath, and then starts Bucky’s way. He picks at Bucky’s shirt collar, moving it aside to get a good look at his neck, then does the same with his sleeves. Bucky shoves him off before he can lift up the hem of it. 

“What the hell are you doing?!” he hisses, and the guy scowls at him. 

“Making sure you haven’t been bitten, yeah? You think I’d be stupid enough to let you stay in here if you were infected?” 

“I haven’t been bitten.” 

“And I’m just supposed to take your word for that?” 

“Yes!” Bucky says, halfway to hysterical. 

The man gives him a look, but after a second he backs off. 

“You end up turning on me and I’m shooting you in the face,” he grunts, turning to head back to the tent. 

Bucky runs a hand through his hair, then over his eyes. 

“That’s fair,” he sighs, dropping his hand back to his side. He watches the man for a moment as he unpacks the things from his bag, then pipes back up. 

“I’m Bucky,” he says, and the man falters. 

“Frank,” he replies a few seconds later without turning to look. Bucky nods to himself. 

“Nice to meet you, Frank.” 

Frank gruffly ‘hm’s, then motions to a little pile of jackets beside the tent. “You sleep there.” 

Bucky doesn’t bother with complaining, happy enough to have a place to rest at all, and heads over. He spreads out a few jackets on the floor and balls one up for a pillow, laying one atop his shoulders as a makeshift blanket once he’s as comfortable as he can be on his side. Frank’s crawled into his tent, but he’s left the entrance open, and Bucky can see him as he lies on his back, staring up at the ceiling with his hands laced on his stomach. He wonders, of course he does- the first human he’s had any real contact with in weeks is mere feet away from him on the ground, silent and still as a rock but still  _ there-  _ but he keeps it all to himself. This is necessity, he thinks. No time for questions or conversation. 

Bucky watches him, and after a minute more he says, “Thank you,” quietly, but loud enough for Frank to hear. Frank doesn’t do anything for a bit, but then he shifts and says back, “You’re welcome.” 

It’s enough to bring a small smile to Bucky’s lips as he closes his eyes, willing himself to relax enough to drift off again.

-

There’s footsteps. One, two, unsteady shuffles across the floor, and then a soft, breathy moan. 

Bucky sighs, rolling himself over fitfully onto his other side. The steps progress, and Bucky reaches up to rub his fingers into his eyes. He’s got no idea what time it is, or how long he’s been asleep, but he’s five seconds away from turning over and giving Frank the What’s For for waking him up again so damn early. 

Raising his arms, he stretches and breathes in nice and deep when it hits him, making him wrinkle up his nose and pinch his brows in disgust. It takes a second to register the smell, but when he does it’s like a douse of cold water to his head; rotting flesh. 

His whole body clams up and he blinks wide eyes at the tiled ceiling, listening. He picks up more stumbling near some of the aisles towards the front of the shop, the sound of things bumping against the shelves and gurgling angrily at the impact. 

Bucky slowly turns his head to the side and catches sight of a shadow moving a little ways away from the counter, then glances up at the tent where Frank is still out cold. He can’t call for him, so he braces himself, rotates onto his belly and ever so quietly begins to scoot forwards across the ground like a snake until he reaches the entrance. He moves pretty quickly after that, clambering halfway on top of Frank and shoving a hand over the other man’s mouth when he wakes with a start. 

Frank looks up at him with eyes blazing and moves to grip at his wrist, but Bucky hushes him and points outside, and Frank turns his head in that direction. 

He watches for a moment, the dark figure shambling around on broken glass, then bats Bucky’s hand away from his face. He looks up and their eyes meet for a split second before he flits his own towards the pistol he’s got stuffed half under his parka pillow, and Bucky gets it, nodding as he brushes his hand over his own, still secured in the waistband of his jeans. Lifting himself up on his elbows, Frank twists and takes a peek outside, lifting four fingers up over his shoulder as a warning. Bucky swallows hard, leaning forward to get a better view for himself. 

The one near the counter has gotten closer, and there’s two bumbling around in the aisles of camping supplies, the fourth meandering by the entrance to the store. There’s no way they’d be able to take out the closest one without alerting them all, but it’s a risk they’ll have to take if they want a shot at making it out with all pieces of themselves intact. Frank sends him one last glance and raises his gun, aims, and squeezes. 

The shot rings out like a bell and the Moaner goes down limp like a ragdoll in a pool of its own black, decaying blood. The others heads turn towards the sound, and Frank leaps up, plowing his way out of the tent and sending a second one to the ground. Bucky hurries his way out after him, grabs for his duffle bag he’d left sitting on the floor at the tent’s side and slings the strap over his head. 

There’s three more figures making their way in through the front of the shop when Bucky looks up, and Frank’s already occupied with two, so he raises his own piece and fires, blowing out the eye of the Moaner growling its way towards him from behind a mannequin display. Another is making its way to him at a concerning speed from the opposite side, and he turns and shoots, but the bullet grazes past its shoulder instead. Bucky curses, and it opens its lipless maw and shrieks, limping faster on twisted ankles. 

“Bucky!” Frank yells, and Bucky whips his head in the direction of his voice, finds him several feet away barreling towards the entrance. Bucky takes off toward him, but a Moaner comes snarling out of an aisle to his right with chomping teeth, half of its face dripping away from its skull. 

“Shit!” Bucky yelps, and fires a desperate shot into the thing’s stomach. It slows it down, hissing and fussing up a storm, and Bucky takes the extra seconds to plant his hands against a shelving unit and push, toppling it over and leaving the bastard trapped under the weight. It screeches as he runs off, grasping with a desperate hand at his retreating feet. 

He makes his way back to Frank’s side and Frank clutches the sleeve of his shirt in a tight fist, tugs him along and leads them both out and into the hall. They turn and look off into the darkness, illuminated only by the skylight and the moonbeams pouring through, but it’s more than enough to help make out the herd lumbering at them from down the hall. Frank wastes no time or ammo, spins around and drags Bucky off in the other direction. Bucky has no choice but to stumble along with him, but he keeps glancing back over his shoulder, watching the steady approach of the figures at their backs. 

The once silent corridors are alive with echoing howls and wailing, hissing breaths that shutter and bubble. It’s something he wishes he could block out, but it’s everywhere, all around him with no escape. 

Frank jerks him to the side and down a smaller hallway, and it’s enough to distract his mind from the noise as they reach the end and Frank kicks open a fire-escape door, shoving Bucky out and following him quickly after. The door shuts and locks behind them, and Bucky’s almost naive enough to believe it’s over, gulping in air while they sprint out into the parking lot, until he turns his head and catches sight of another horde surrounding the main entry to the mall. Frank’s looking the same way, and he doesn’t see the corpse that comes rushing up to his other side, but Bucky does. 

“Frank!” he cries out, “Moaner, nine o’clock!” 

“What?!” Frank yells, whipping his head around, and his eyes widen, but Bucky’s already got his gun raised and takes the shot. The thing crumples silently, and Frank turns back to him and catches his gaze for a beat. 

Then his brows furrow, and he shouts, “What did you just call it?” 

“What?!” Bucky parrots back. 

They reach a car, less deteriorated than the rest, and Frank jimmies the handle on the driver's side to get the door to open and slides in. Bucky clambers into the passenger seat and slams the door behind him. The horde is gaining on them, and Bucky looks to Frank desperately as he tries to get the thing working. It takes a few false starts, but sooner than later the motor is roaring and ready to go, and Frank floors the gas, wrenching the car into motion. It kicks up dust as he swerves his way out of the parking lot and turns onto the desolate road, and Bucky twists around in his seat to watch through the rear window as the Moaners disappear out of view behind them, slowly followed by the shopping plaza until it’s like it was never there at all. 

Bucky huffs, grabs the strap of his duffle and ducks his head to yank it off so he can throw it in the back seat. After, he slumps, everything that just happened in the past hour catching up to him all at once and sucking the air from his lungs. He buries his face in his hands and tries to steady his breathing- he can feel Frank glancing his way every now and then, silently checking him out. 

“Moaner, huh?” Frank says a while later, one hand on the wheel while his other scrubs through the longer hair on the top of his head. “That what you’re calling them?” 

Bucky drops his hands and tilts his head against the doorframe. It rattles his skull, feels like it’s turning his brain into a smoothie, but it’s cold and it calms him. 

“What else am I supposed to call them? That’s what everyone else was saying.” 

Frank gives his head a little shake. 

“Yeah, well, they’re not porn stars, okay? They’re Plagued. The Plagued- it was all over the news. Moaners,” he scoffs. 

Bucky makes a face at no one in particular. 

“Hate to break it to you, but it’s not the 14th century.” 

Frank looks at him, turns his eyes on the road and then looks at him again. 

“It sounds better than Moaners.” 

“Not really.” 

“Yes, it does!” 

Bucky raises his hands in defeat, too tired to deal with it. Frank watches him a moment, finger tapping on the steering wheel. 

“You okay?” he asks a beat later, and his voice is softer, gentle- something Bucky hasn’t heard in his tone since they’ve met. 

He glimpses Frank’s way, and after a pause he answers, “I will be.” 

Frank spares him one last look and nods, dropping the hand in his hair to lay against the window. 

“Get some rest,” he says.

“You too,” Bucky says back, and despite the slivers of sunlight poking up over the horizon he lets his eyes slide shut. 

Frank smiles, just barely, but it’s there. 

It’s a few miles more of silence before Bucky pipes back up again, voice deep and croaky with sleep, “Where are we going?” 

Frank scans the road ahead of them, and replies, “To find somewhere safe.”

-

Frank pulls the car over onto the side of the road a few hours later, driving it into a small patch of trees before he cuts the engine. Bucky blinks weary eyes and squints at him. 

“What are you doing?” he asks. 

Frank opens his door, spares Bucky a glance over his shoulder and replies, “Have to piss.” 

Bucky watches him climb out, and after a few seconds of hesitation he uncurls himself from the passenger side seat and follows. He stretches his arms up above his head once he’s standing, shakes out his legs and rotates his neck, then makes his way over to a tree and does his own business. Frank’s back at the car by the time he returns, and Bucky scratches his fingers through his mangy hair as he approaches. 

“So,” he says a beat later, leaned up against the side of the car with an arm propped on its roof. Frank has his eyes on the large field on the other side of the road, surveying, and he doesn’t turn his head at Bucky’s voice but Bucky keeps on regardless. “What is this ‘safe place’ you’re taking us to, anyway?” 

Frank’s quiet for a second, breathing out deep through his nose before he replies, “I’ll know it when I see it.” 

Bucky blinks, waiting, but Frank doesn’t offer him any more. 

“That’s it?” he asks. 

“That’s it,” Frank says, gaze still focused a million miles away. Bucky watches him, a crease forming between his brows. 

“No gameplan, nothing?” 

Frank finally turns to him then, and he cocks an eyebrow like Bucky’s a fool. 

“Drive. Eat. Sleep. Try not to die,” he says, like it’s obvious. 

Bucky sighs. 

“Do we at least have a map?” 

“Nope.” 

Bucky must not do a very good job at reigning in the look that scrunches up his features, because Frank shakes his head with a light scoff and moves his whole body to face in Bucky’s direction. 

“Look,” he adds, “You don’t like the way it is, you’re more than welcome to get off here and go your own way. I’m not stopping you.” 

And with that, he makes his way back around the car and squishes himself once again into the driver's seat. The whole body of it rocks when he slams the door, but Bucky stands there a moment longer, chewing on his bottom lip, before he huffs, raps his knuckles once against the roof and climbs in after. He flops into his seat while Frank cranks the engine and spares him a glance. 

“You’re not getting rid of me that easily,” he says, matter of fact. “Guess you’ll just have to be stuck with me a while longer.” 

Frank turns the car back out onto the road, and Bucky can see how he fights and fails to hide the gentle curve of his lips into a smile when he sighs. 

“Whoop-di-do.” 

They carry on for a few more miles in silence; Bucky keeps his eyes glued outside of his window, watching the trees and the endless swaying fields breeze by outside like a fast paced film reel. Months later and it still shocks him how quiet everything is, and desolate. What once was a scene so full of peace now harbors a sinister edge hidden behind the tall, rotting corn stalks. 

Bucky taps his knuckles against his mouth, then finally peels himself away and twists around in his seat to reach back for his duffle bag. He unzips it and pulls out two water bottles, holds one out to Frank once he gets himself situated and facing the right way again. Frank glances at it, then lifts a hand from the wheel to take it from Bucky’s grasp. 

“Thanks,” he rasps, and Bucky raises his bottle slightly once he’s gulped a mouthful, cheeks puffing out like a fish until he swallows it down. 

“Dunno how many are in there, but,” he shrugs, screwing the cap back in place and leaving the bottle in one of the cupholders on the inside of his door. “Should last us a little bit.” 

Frank nods and takes a few sips of his own before putting it away, and Bucky leans back in his seat as much as it will allow, lolling his head to the side to watch Frank’s profile as he squints in the light of the mid-afternoon sun. His features are all hard lines and sharp edges, but Bucky finds himself mesmerized by it, the way Frank’s silhouetted against gold. He doesn’t go back on his first assessment of the guy; Frank’s good looking, and Bucky can’t help but think of how, in another life, he would’ve made it his mission to tap that as soon as possible. But things are different now-  _ he’s  _ different now, and he pushes that line of thinking aside before he gets the chance to really go down that path. 

“Where are you from?” he asks instead, tired of the silence. He’s lived in a blanket of it since he left home, damned if he’s going to pass up the opportunity to have an actual conversation now. 

Frank’s eyes flit his way and then back to the road, and he answers, “New York.” 

Bucky’s eyes widen a little, and he sits up in his chair a bit straighter. 

“No shit? What the hell is a New Yorker doing all the way out here?” 

Frank’s lip twists, and his finger starts tapping up a make believe rhythm against the steering wheel. 

“Whole city was overrun. No use staying just to get killed when there was nothing for me there, so I left.” 

“No family?” Bucky asks, and instantly regrets it. 

Something in Frank shuts down the second it comes out of his mouth- his eyes glaze over, boarding themselves back up, and his whole body tenses like a threatened wolf. He white knuckles the steering wheel in his hands, and after a beat he says, “Yeah,” and leaves it at that. 

Bucky swallows, turning his eyes on his hands where he’s got them stuffed in his lap, picking at his ragged fingernails until they bleed. 

“Indiana,” he says a few minutes later. “That’s where I’m from.” 

Frank raises a brow, seemingly glad to get back on another topic. 

“Pretty far from home yourself,” he observes, and Bucky shrugs. 

“Yeah, well,” he says as he moves his gaze back out of the window, something gnawing on the inside of his chest, “Like you said- there was nothing left for me.” 

He can feel the weight of Frank’s eyes on him, but it’s not harsh, and eventually he swivels his head back around to meet them. Frank holds their gaze for as long as he can before he has to look back to the road, but, to Bucky’s surprise, he attempts to carry the conversation on. 

“Someone teach you how to shoot?” is what he asks, and it throws Bucky for a moment, unexpected. 

“Uh, yeah, my dad,” he replies, and Frank nods his head. 

“You’ve got a pretty good aim, know your way around a piece.” 

“He used to take me hunting. Not often but enough I could hit what I was aiming for most of the time, which is all that matters, I guess.” He reaches for his water bottle and takes a swig, then gestures with it in Frank’s direction, flicking up a brow. “But  _ you _ , Mr. G.I. Joe- you’re something else. Am I hitching a ride with a secret badass? Tell me you’re the real life James Bond, and we might actually make it through this.” 

Frank snorts softly, and he doesn’t hold back the gentle smirk crawling over his face now. 

“Marine, actually,” he replies, and Bucky would say he’s shocked, but really, it makes sense. 

“Close enough,” he concedes, and Frank chuckles. It makes Bucky give a little close lipped grin himself, and he leans against the arm he’s got propped up atop his armrest. 

“Thank you,” he adds after a moment, softer. 

Frank glances at him, slightly confused, but when he gets it his smile slowly starts to melt from his mouth and he sighs. 

“Don’t do that,” he says, and all at once he sounds weary, worn down to the thin edge. “I appreciate it, but don’t, okay?” 

Bucky rolls his lips, and after a second he nods once and says, “Okay.” 

Frank sneaks another peek at him out of the corner of his eye and reaches over to grab his bottle, and Bucky takes his own and tips it back until there’s nothing left, tossing the empty plastic back into the gaping maw of his open duffle. 

“Do we have enough gas for this thing?” he asks, a little out of the blue and curious. 

“Loaded it up with a few cans a while before you showed up,” Frank says after he swallows and puts the bottle back down. “It’s enough to get us wherever we need to go.” 

Bucky wants to prod him about it again, ask exactly  _ where  _ is where they need to go, but he lets it lie and stretches his legs out as much as he can, heaving a deep breath as he gazes off to lose himself once again in the endless fields outside his window.

-

Days pass. They sleep in the car when they can manage, curled in on themselves like cats, and spend the rest of their time driving in search of somewhere safe enough to stop off at and load up. It’s a crapshoot at best- most places they come across are so ransacked, deteriorated or crawling with Moaners that Frank and Bucky hardly spare them a single glance. 

They make it by on Gatorades and old soda, munching on some of the jerky Frank had stuffed in the car sometime before in the case of an emergency and handfuls of the candy Bucky had brought along; water is a precious commodity and they ration it as best they can. 

Bucky’s wiping down Frank’s disassembled gun in his lap with a dusty old rag he found under one of the back seats when Frank turns the car off into a little clearing. He glances Bucky’s way before he hops out, questioning, and Bucky raises a hand-  _ I’m good-  _ then gets back to his work. It’s only a few minutes later when there’s a knock at his window, and he jumps in his seat, fumbling with the gun in his lap to keep it from falling to the floorboard. 

Frank’s grinning at him when he looks up, and Bucky scowls, takes his sweet time piecing the weapon back together and setting it aside before he finally reaches out and pushes open the door. Frank moves aside to let him stand and he stretches with a groan, relishing in the quick little ‘ _ pop, pop, pop, pop _ ’s down his spine as he works out all his knots and kinks. 

“There a reason you’re trying to scare me outta my skin?” he mumbles once his muscles are as loose as he’ll ever get them to be. 

Frank, from where he’s leaning against the car hood, gestures his head towards the gun Bucky had laid on the dash. 

“Think today might be a good day for some target practice,” he says, and Bucky can’t help the furrow of his brows as his gaze follows Frank’s own. 

“You sure about that?” he asks, doesn’t miss the way the wariness he feels strings itself around his tone. Ammo is almost as valuable as water, especially in such a barren area as the one they’re passing through, and that’s not even factoring in the problem of noise. But Frank has yet to steer him wrong for the time they’ve been together, and he figures that’s got to count for something. 

That, and the current look on Frank’s face; something glitters in his eyes when he fixes them back on Bucky’s, and his mouth twitches at the edges like he’s holding back a smile. His whole being is lighter than usual, and he looks like a kid on their birthday, excitement buzzing at his frayed edges. Bucky thinks his trigger finger has been itching for a chance to go to town for a while longer than he’s let on. 

“Positive,” Frank says, and roams his gaze over the empty patch of grass they’d parked in. “You know I wouldn’t drag you into something I thought was a bad idea. I scoped the area- we’re safe.” 

Bucky fights the doubtful twist of his lip, because despite it all, it wasn’t a lie. He didn’t know when it happened, but somewhere along the way something had sparked between them, something akin to trust, so Bucky huffs and reaches back into the car to hand Frank his pistol and to grab his own gun. Frank digs around in the back and comes out with an armful of empty bottles they’d tossed, and together they march off through the grass, stopping a little ways away. 

Frank stomps his way down to the tree line and makes it back with a decent sized log slung over his shoulder to use as a placement for the bottles, and once everything’s set how he wants it he steps back and checks over his gun. Bucky follows his lead, and once they’re both satisfied Frank raises it, aims, and fires. 

The bottle to the farthest left bursts into a cloud of glass shards. 

Frank blows a sharp breath through his nose and smirks a little to himself, then adjusts his stance and blows another of the bottles to hell. 

Bucky cocks a brow; he can admit it, he’s impressed. Lifting his own piece, he inhales nice and slow and hopes he can pull off enough to make Frank feel the same. The first bottle hits low and shatters, but the second bullet buzzes past its target like its got somewhere else to be. Bucky hisses a curse and Frank eyes him, and after a second Frank flicks the safety on his gun, hides it away in the waistband of his jeans and steps over. 

“Here,” he says and reaches with gentle hands to guide Bucky’s arms. 

It’s not condescending, and Bucky stands a little shocked as Frank scoots in close to his side and softly moves him around until his position is however Frank wants it to be. He gulps down the butterflies trying to crawl up his throat when Frank’s calloused fingers ghost over the skin of his wrist; Frank’s hot breath puffs against the side of his face while the other man squints down the sight, and Bucky feels like he could come to pieces. 

“Don’t grip it so tight, keep your hands steady,” Frank murmurs into his ear. His hands drop from Bucky’s arms, but he keeps the close distance while he whispers, “Relax yourself, and… go for it.” 

Bucky squeezes the trigger on cue, and the shot smashes its way through the bottle next to the middle. He shifts, hits another, then another. 

“Attaboy, attaboy! That’s what I’m talking about,” Frank cheers, clapping Bucky on the arm when Bucky lowers his gun, and Bucky beams, not afraid to admit he’s proud of himself. Frank seems to be feeling the same way when he rests that hand on Bucky’s shoulder and says, “You’re a natural.” 

Bucky runs his teeth over his top lip and shrugs. 

“Pretty sure that’s about ninety-nine percent luck, but thank you,” he says, but Frank shakes his head. 

“There’s no such thing as luck when you pull that trigger. That right there? That’s skill.” 

It gets Bucky blushing- he can feel it burning its way up his neck to the tips of his ears, and he flounders a little. Frank doesn’t seem to take notice, or he ignores it out of courtesy, which Bucky is infinitely grateful for. 

“We’ll make a sharpshooter of you yet, yeah?” is what Frank says instead, and gives Bucky’s shoulder a little shake. “Come on, let's do a few more.” 

They go at it until there’s no bottles left- an efficient way to get rid of their waste- then turn away and pack themselves back up into the car. It’s a quiet drive, but the silence is light; the good mood from their impromptu shooting session lingers between them like a warm fog, and Bucky finds himself smiling at nothing in particular as he rests his head against the back of his seat. Frank spares a look at him every now and then, and when he sees Bucky slouched back with his lips curled up at the ceiling, he snorts, grinning himself. 

They reach an intersection down the road a little while later and Frank hesitates, leaning out to peer each way before he finally makes a choice and steers the car left. Bucky busies himself with searching through the glove compartments, rummaging around through the junk he finds; tissues, an old thermos that sloshes concerningly, a half full bottle of hand sanitizer, and to Bucky’s complete and utter surprise, a single CD. He plucks it out and holds it up to the light to inspect it when something catches his eye and he looks away. 

There, some ways up ahead, sit several rows of broken down cars, backed-up along the road and turning pale under the harsh light of the sun. 

Bucky screws up his eyes to get a better view and lowers the CD onto his thigh. Frank’s got the same pinched look on his face as they draw closer, and he slows the car to a creep. 

It’s a graveyard, for the machines and the people stuck inside of them- Bucky catches sight of more than one decomposing body sitting prone in the drivers and passengers seats of the vehicles they pass, and it sours something in his stomach like he’s sucking on a lemon. 

He can feel when Frank tenses up beside him and abruptly plants his foot on the brake, and he draws his eyes away to find a Moaner, stumbling and shuffling its way through the maze of rusting carcasses. He follows it for a good few seconds, then turns his gaze on Frank who flicks his own back in Bucky’s direction, and they share a silent look that holds steady until something moves behind Frank’s shoulder. Bucky cranes his neck to see. 

There’s another one on the side of the road, and that’s it, at first, before Bucky notices more movement in the surrounding trees and instantly blanches. Frank doesn’t miss the way the color drains from his skin, and he swivels around in his seat to see what all the fuss is about. He doesn’t go pale, but it’s a damned near thing. 

There’s an  _ army  _ of them, hissing and growling those terrible grating sounds of theirs as they emerge from their hiding places amongst the shadows. The sound of the car must have drawn them out, and they stutter towards it like a hivemind with a singular purpose. 

“Fuck,” Bucky and Frank say in unison. 

One of the Plagued wails, a shrill thing that pierces through Bucky’s head like an icepick, and all at once they’re picking up the pace, the ones that can do more than shamble galloping along on rotten legs as fast as they can manage. 

“Shit, shit!” Bucky yells, and it spurs Frank into action; he rams his foot against the gas and sends the car swerving around and back the way they came. 

Bucky keeps his focus locked on the horde gaining on their tail, and a few come loping out of the woods on Frank’s side of the road to join in on the fun. Bucky glances out of the rear left window at them, and he’s so preoccupied with it he doesn't notice the Moaner on his side until it slams itself into his door with a loud, sickening thud. 

Bucky can’t help it- he shouts, halfway to leaping straight out of his skin and ascending to those pearly gates right then and there. Frank grits his teeth and presses down on the pedal, and it’s a few heart thumping minutes, but eventually they get far enough away that the herd is little more than ants in the periphery. Bucky, with a heavy sense of deja vu, waits until they’ve disappeared completely before he finally turns back around. 

He closes his eyes, lungs stumbling over a shaky exhale, and bangs the back of his head against his seat a few times before he finally relents. 

Frank’s got his eyes zeroed in on the road ahead of him when Bucky finally slits his own open and flops his head enough to the side to get a decent look at him. His lips are drawn in a thin line, but besides that and the firm grip he keeps on the wheel, Bucky almost wouldn’t realize he was shaken up at all. He stares for a moment, then remembers. 

“You wanna?” Bucky asks, lifting the CD in his hand and desperate for a distraction. 

Frank glances at it, stays silent for a moment before he sighs and motions towards the CD player. Bucky’s doesn’t think he’s ever hurried to get a CD into the slot faster in his life, even when he had two little sisters with varying music tastes to contend with, and he’s practically salivating for the sound of anything, even if it’s disco. Once it’s in, he cranks up the volume and sits back as the music starts up. 

It’s a nice little beat at first, and Bucky finds himself tapping his fingers against his leg to the rhythm until the lyrics start. 

_ I walked with a zombie  _

_ I walked with a zombie  _

_ I walked with a zombie last night _

Bucky stares blank faced at the radio for a good while, all motions of his hands stopped. Even Frank peels his eyes away from the road to burn holes into the cracked radio screen. 

A beat passes, and the song marches on. 

Bucky finds himself fighting back a smile, chewing on his lip, but after a moment he loses his battle and grins. Frank looks to him when a high pitched giggle escapes his throat, and then slowly he’s smiling too, wider and wider until they both crumble and dissolve into hysterical laughter, shoulders shaking at the complete and utter absurdity of the situation they’ve found themselves in. It continues as Frank turns back onto the street they’d come from and keeps straight, and doesn’t stop until long after the song is done.

\- 

It’s a little less than a week later when they finally stumble upon a convenient mart not in shambles or overrun with the dead, and Bucky flattens himself back against his seat and squeezes his eyes shut nice and tight to hold like a dam against the waves of emotion that threaten to overcome him. He never thought he’d be crying over a corner shop, but after days of rationing the little bits of food they had left and chasing it down with swigs of flat soda, the sight of it and the possibilities that lie beyond its doors leaves him almost breathless. A peek at Frank shows him he’s not the only one who’s feeling the relief; the other man's eyes are suspiciously wet before he blinks it away and clears his throat, pulling the car up in front of the double doors and putting it in park. 

He turns Bucky’s way once it’s stopped, eyes following as Bucky leans back to snatch up his duffle and secure it safely around his shoulder. 

“Just grab as much of whatever as you can and get back out. We don’t wanna spend any more time here than we have to,” Frank tells him, and Bucky nods his agreement. Frank dips his head back, and together they slink out of the car and approach the entrance on silent feet. 

Frank’s hand doesn’t stray far from the pistol in his jeans, and he keeps careful watch while Bucky steps up to the grimy glass door and cups his hands around his eyes as he peers in to get a better look. He doesn’t see anything from where he stands, but he knows that doesn’t mean a single shit. He’s learned the hard way surprises lurk around every corner, and then some. 

Glancing back over his shoulder at Frank, he jerks his head towards the door and Frank moves up next to him to help him pry it open. The rusted hinges whine in protest, but with gritted teeth they get it open eventually and step inside, brushing the dirt from their hands onto their already less than clean pants and shirts. 

Despite the rush of endorphins Bucky feels at the stale smell of food in the air, a small, niggling part of him can’t help but wish the place had also sold clothes. There’s only so much his and Frank’s shared clothing can put up with, even with the sporadic washings in the creeks and rivers they come across on their travels. Not that Bucky entirely minds how his shirts hang a little baggy on even Frank’s impressive frame. 

Bucky motions at Frank to get his attention and points off to one side of the store once he’s got it. Frank gets what he’s going at and nods, then turns and starts making his way down the aisles in the opposite direction. They keep their footsteps light, but the soft scuffling of Frank’s boots on the floor is a comfort while Bucky scans the shelves for anything he can nab. 

People have been through here already, he can tell. Some aisles are scavenged down to the bare minimum- canned goods in particular seem scarce to come by, but Bucky manages to scrape together a couple tins of Franks’n’Beans, some old soup he doesn’t bother checking the date on and some carrots and peas. Boxed food seems to be more plentiful in supply- probably, Bucky thinks, because nowadays most people either don’t have the time or supplies to cook- but he grabs some anyway just in case and carries on. 

Water gets loaded into the duffle like it’s going out of style, and Bucky even manages to sneak a few extra candies to satisfy his and Frank’s sweet teeth. He’s reaching for a bag of chips when something sounds to his left; it drags against the floor like a dead weight, over and over again like it’s pacing over itself, and instantly Bucky knows it’s not Frank catching back up with him. 

He stuffs the chips in alongside everything else he’d grabbed and goes for his gun, fighting to quiet his breath as he inches forward, one foot at a time. The scraping gets louder with his approach, and as he reaches the end of the aisle he braces himself, jaw clenched, and whips up his piece once he finally turns the corner. 

It’s a little girl. 

She couldn’t be more than seven, maybe eight, and when she slowly twists around to face him his stomach plummets, and his mouth goes dry. 

The slouch of her shoulders is all wrong, grotesque and hunched where her whole body is trying to compensate for her deteriortating foot, and the skin of her jaw is starting to slough away to reveal baby teeth not yet lost. But her eyes. They’re cloudy and milky pale, but Bucky looks into them and something wrenches at his gut, makes his hands shake and falter where they point the muzzle of the gun at her head. 

Her eyes plead, as much as possible for something that’s dead, and Bucky wonders with bile bubbling up his throat if that was the way they looked when she took her last breath. 

She looks at him, and a throaty growl gnashes out of her mouth as she starts to limp his way. He puts his finger on the trigger, but even as she advances it stays frozen, unwilling to move just like the rest of him. He just stares, doesn’t even notice the way the hands start to lower his gun until a shot rings out, not his own, and the girl goes tottering to the side and finally crumples into a small heap on the ground with a bullet wound to the side of the head. 

Bucky gapes, and it takes him a second to find the strength to twist his neck and look down the aisle. Frank’s standing there, pistol in hand by his side, and his eyes have that wild sheen to them like the first day they met as his nostrils flare and his chest rises and falls on harsh pants. 

They don’t do anything for a good few minutes but bore holes into each other, but Bucky breaks it eventually when he turns and heaves, spewing everything he’d eaten earlier that day over the floor. Frank turns his eyes down, then moves his whole head to look away and off to the side as Bucky gags again and again until nothing comes up but bitter acid and spit. 

Bucky gasps in a breath, takes a moment to collect himself and straightens out. He wipes a hand over his mouth, gives it another few seconds. He can’t look at her sprawled on the floor, and his jaw trembles, but he reigns it in and finally walks away. Frank gazes after him when he goes past without a word, and silently follows along with a plastic bag full of the things he’d gotten dangling by his leg. 

They load up everything they’d collected in the back seat and slide back into their seats in the front, and Bucky’s mouth stays shut while Frank cranks the ignition and steers the car away. He doesn’t speak again until two hours pass, staring out of his window with unseeing eyes and his fingers pressed up against his mouth. 

“I’m not mad at you,” is all he says, so hushed it’s almost a whisper. 

Some invisible weight seems to drop from Frank’s shoulders at it, and he grips at the wheel a little tighter, swallows past the lump in his throat, and answers back, “Okay.”

-

Frank takes them off down a little dirt path once the sun starts to hang lower in the sky, having spotted a small shack off of the road as they drove on. Bucky doesn’t stir until Frank opens his door and kneels down in front of him like he’s a child, a little while after having gotten out and scoped out the property for any potential problems. 

There’s something flickering around behind his eyes that has Bucky refusing to meet them, but instead of offering any empty platitudes or pity, Frank explains, “We need a place to sleep that’s not a goddamn car seat.” 

Bucky vehemently agrees, and he climbs wordlessly to his feet when Frank does, meandering around to grab some of their things from the back and help lug them into the shack. He sets them down on the molding wooden floor with a soft  _ ‘whump’ _ and looks around. 

There’s two rooms, barely; a thin wall separates what he suspects to be the living area and a small outdated kitchen that looks like it hasn’t been used since even before the whole world went to hell. Musty furniture sits alone in the main room, and some blankets and sheets rest on a mattress on the floor that Bucky and Frank string up over each of the sparse windows. 

Frank finds an oil lamp and some oil in one of the cobweb-strewn cabinets above the stove and lights it as Bucky flops himself down to sit on the bare mattress, places it on a little end table beside the couch so it bathes the whole room in a flickering warm glow. He continues to shuffle about, dragging over his shopping bag to rummage around in. He plucks out a can of chili and a can of beans, and spares a glance Bucky’s way as he pops them open with the help of his knife. 

“You want anything?” he asks, sticking the blade into the chili to slop some on top of the beans. 

Bucky watches with a hollow feeling gnawing at his gut, couldn’t muster up the want to stick anything in his mouth if someone put a gun to his temple, and a beat later he gives a slight shake of his head. He knows he’s not imagining the concerned crease between Frank’s brows or that look in his eyes, but he chooses to ignore it. 

Frank keeps quiet, turns his gaze away after a second more and occupies himself with a mouthful of his bean/chili concoction while Bucky latches his focus onto the dancing flame inside of the lamp. He watches it until rainbows are burned into his vision, tracks each wink and wave and grinds his teeth until his jaw hurts with the pressure of it. 

“I couldn’t do it,” he rasps a few minutes later, the words burning their way out of his throat like acid. It crumbles his walls of rubble and rocks, leaves his chin trembling as he fights to keep himself together. “I had my finger on the fucking trigger and I couldn’t fucking do it.” 

Frank looks back up at him, swallows down his mouthful and slowly lowers his knife into his half empty tin. Bucky scrunches up his nose and wrings a hand tightly around his left wrist until it’s red and raw, and he can’t stop it- tears leak from his eyes, chest hitching on his soft gasp for air, and he sinks his teeth deep into the flesh of his lower lip as he shakes his head. 

“She was coming right at me and I… I wasn’t strong enough.” 

There’s a clatter as aluminum hits the floor, and Frank scoots forwards in Bucky’s direction with a tenseness to him that gets Bucky sparing him a look. 

“Hey,” Frank says, and it’s harsh, but the tone isn’t directed at him. “Don’t. Do not do that to yourself, do you hear me? That’s not strength. That’s not strength, okay, that’s,” he pauses and licks his lips, turns his eyes down for a moment before he’s looking back up, “That’s being human. And you do not beat yourself up about that, ever.” 

Bucky stares at him, lips parted in silent sort of awe. He swallows, chews on the inside of his cheek. 

“I still should’ve taken the shot,” he halfway whispers, though it echoes loud in the room. He sniffs, clamps his eyes shut and bites back a sob as he runs a hand over his forehead. “The way the world is- it should be easier by now.” 

Frank doesn’t respond for a long stretch of minutes, but Bucky can hear the way his throat works over what he wants to say. 

“I had to shoot my kids.” 

It freezes Bucky where he sits, and after a moment he slowly moves his hand away and opens his eyes to meet Frank’s own. They’re glassy and wet, but Frank doesn’t even bother to wipe it away. 

“I had to shoot my kids, and my wife, after they turned. I had to look them in the eye and make the decision to pull that trigger, and I’ve had to do it to a lot more since. It never gets easier.” 

“Frank…” Bucky says, so hushed and fragile he can barely get it out. 

Frank just stares, then blinks and takes a moment, and Bucky doesn’t miss the tears that slip from the corners of his eyes. 

“You’ve got to find a way to live with it, see,” he finally scrapes out. “Because if you don’t, that shit- that shit will eat you alive faster than any of those goddamn corpses will.” 

And then he levels Bucky with a look that strips him bare. 

“But that doesn’t mean you’re not allowed to feel something about it.” 

Bucky looks at him, all the air knocked from his lungs and speechless, and finally, finally he lets go. 

His whole body slumps like his strings have been cut and he cries, chest heaving with it until his upper lip and chin are wet with snot and his face is red. 

Frank ghosts a hand over his arm and Bucky falls into him. They clutch at each other- Bucky’s not an idiot, can feel the way Frank’s own shoulders shake when he buries his face into the crook of Bucky’s neck, and it only makes him hold on tighter. They sob, not caring at the way they soak each others clothes, and they mourn. Those they’ve lost, the places they’ve left behind, the way the world used to be. 

They sob, and they don’t stop until they don’t have the energy for tears any longer, lungs rattling on shaky breaths as they gulp in air, slowly quieting down. It takes even longer before they finally untangle from each other, wiping at their eyes with the backs of their hands and the hems of their shirts. 

Frank slumps back on the floor against the foot of the couch; his eyes and cheeks are puffy and red and slick with tears, and he runs a hand through his mussed hair that’s grown out along with the beginnings of a beard because of their lack of scissors or a proper razor. Bucky knows he’s not any better off and he gives a watery sniff, but doesn’t move too far away, keeps crouched on the edge of the mattress and stares at the floor. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, because he is, for more things than he can count. “I’m- I’m sorry for what happened to your family.” 

Frank nods, and there’s a slight sharp edge to his gaze until he realizes Bucky doesn’t mean it out of pity. Bucky fiddles with his fingers, peeling away bits of dead skin. 

“I lost mine, too,” he adds, once a beat passes. “Three sisters- the youngest, Alice, she got sick first. And then it went through Becca and Mary and Ma. I moved back home to help take care of them, but by the time it was over Dad and I were the only ones left.” 

He gives a sick facsimile of a laugh, humorless and bitter. 

“I don’t know why it ended at us. One could say it was a blessing, y’know, that we managed to make it out. But I think it was a curse.” 

A stuttering inhale, and he tilts his head a little, working his jaw. 

“I left to head into town one morning to see if I could find some supplies, and I came back to find my dad in the bathroom with his hunting rifle in his lap and his brains splattered on the shower wall.” 

He glances to Frank, and the other man watches him back just as steadily, unwavering in his attention. Bucky finds himself grateful for it. 

After a second Frank shifts, moving himself over a bit, and motions his head at his side. Bucky hesitates, but he scoots himself to sit against the couch at Frank’s right. Their arms brush together, and Bucky sighs, finding comfort in Frank’s presence. 

“I don’t think you’re cursed,” Frank murmurs. Bucky turns his head a little to get a better look at him. “Do I think that was a shitty series of events? Absolutely. But I think… I think you lived for a reason. You just haven’t figured out what that reason is yet.” 

Bucky rolls it over in his head, and he watches Frank with a softness he can’t hide. Maybe… maybe he’s closer to figuring out his reason than he thinks. 

They sit together in silence for a while after that, reveling in the simple fact of each other’s company. Bucky runs a hand over his own scraggly facial hair and licks his lips. 

“Can I ask,” he starts, halting, but longing for scraps of anything to remind him of before, of what it was like to be a person, “What was your family like?”

Frank blinks, and he takes his time before he answers, tapping a finger against the side of his thigh until he clears his throat and says, “They were… they were the best things to ever happen to me. My wife, Maria, you know, and my son and my little girl- Lisa and Frank junior.” 

Bucky smiles a little, tries to picture the man that sits next to him now with two kids on each arm. Frank smiles himself, but his gaze is a million miles away and he sniffs, running his hand under his nose. 

“Yeah, my kids,” he chuckles, “They could be little shits, let me tell you. Lisa, she was always that little voice of reason, but Frankie, God, that kid could be the devil on your shoulder sometimes. But then he’d look at you with these eyes, you know? And it didn’t matter what he did, he’d look up at you with that bottom lip sticking out and those puppy dog eyes and everyone just knew he’d get away with it.” 

He rubs his hand over his forehead and scratches it through his hair, and then he laughs, and the way it lights up his face makes Bucky’s heart fumble over itself in his chest. 

“Christ, I remember this one time, we went to go visit a neighbor who’s cat had just given birth, yeah? And the whole time we were there, he just wouldn’t stop begging for one of those damn kittens, I mean, he was just on, and on, and on- ‘Daddy, please, please, I’ll bathe it and feed it and I’ll even clean up after it’- but Maria and I, we kept telling him no, you know, we don’t have the money to take care of it, we don’t have the time for it, wait ‘til you’re older. And eventually we get up and go off to talk with the owners for a little bit, and he shuts up about it, doesn’t say a single word the whole way home. And we get back, and he gets ready to head upstairs to his room when we hear the strangest, high pitched…  _ mewl,  _ and instantly everyone's eyes are on him. He’d fucking smuggled one of those kittens inside of his coat the whole ride to the house without anyone knowing.” 

He shakes his head, and Bucky laughs with him. 

“We turned around and took it straight back but Jesus, did we not let him live that one down for a while.” 

Bucky huffs a little chuckle through his nose and leans his head back against the couch cushions. 

“That reminds me of the time Becca managed to steal a teddy bear from one of those game stalls at the state fair when she was younger,” he says, and Frank snorts. “It wasn’t even one of the small ones either; it was this fucking monstrosity, took up the entire backseat of the car, and the stall owner just never saw.” 

Bucky licks his lips and squints, lets the memories he’d thought he’d buried in dirt take him over. 

“That was the same trip I rode the tilt-a-whirl after eating three hot dogs and ended up puking all over one of my friends,” he continues. 

Frank scrunches up his face in exaggerated disgust, and Bucky can’t help but laugh a little at it. 

“I felt terrible,” he says, and Frank flicks up his brows. 

“Yeah, I bet you did.” 

Bucky purses his lips, lets his head tilt a little in Frank’s direction. “He didn’t seem too bothered by it, though. I think he was mostly just happy I didn’t get any on his bowler hat.” 

That gets Frank raising a brow, turning his head to glance at the side of Bucky’s face. 

“Bowler hat?” he asks, and Bucky gives a small groan, slouches further backwards. 

“ _ Yes _ ,” he grouses, closing his eyes- like this he can almost picture it, the way it always sat neatly atop Dugan’s head despite rain, snow, sleet or a breeze. “My friend, Tim, he used to wear this goddamn bowler hat  _ all the fucking time _ . In the eighteen years I knew him I swear he almost  _ never  _ took it off. He might have even kept it in the bed when he slept. There was this one time when we were in highschool, he was on the football team, and he always kept his hat in his locker during a game so no one would mess with it or something, not that anyone wanted to. Except for this one game in particular, somehow someone from the rival team figured out his locker combination, and they must have gotten someone in the bleachers to steal it, because sometime in the last half of the game when Tim was running to try and catch the ball, someone threw his bowler hat out onto the field. He completely missed the ball, but my god, the mid-air leap he made to snag that hat was one of the most impressive things I’ve ever seen.” 

Frank snickers, and the shaking of it makes his body slide a little to the side until the glancing brushes of their arms becomes a full contact touch. The heat of his skin radiates onto Bucky’s own and leaves him feeling golden from the inside out, and he leans slightly himself until most of his weight is supported against Frank’s shoulder. Frank doesn’t seem to mind it- if anything, he seems content with the closeness. 

“Sounds like I guy I’d like to meet,” Frank tells him, and Bucky gives a fragile little smile. 

“Yeah,” he says, “He was a character.” 

Frank hums, low and deep in his throat, and moves his head so it’s resting against Bucky’s temple. 

“I think he and my friend David would’ve gotten along,” he says a bit later. 

Bucky ‘ _ mm _ ’s, running his thumb mindlessly back and forth over his knee. 

“What was he like?” he asks, and Frank tells him. 

He tells him about David’s family and his friend Curtis and his friend Billy, tells him stories of baseball games and road trips and holidays past. Bucky responds with stories of his own; Halloween costume fails, his sister’s ballet recitals, how he broke his left arm trying to leap out of a swing. It’s minutes that could be hours, hours that could be days, talking until their throats get scratchy and their voices go hoarse. 

Frank digs through Bucky’s duffle at one point and pulls out the shirt he’d been wearing the day they’d met, fishing through the pocket on the breast and pulling out a battered up, slightly torn photograph that he presses gently into Bucky’s hands. It’s a woman, face split into a wide grin as she sits on a carousel pony flanked by two beaming children. Bucky runs his thumb over the crease where the photo had been folded down the middle, a pang of something shooting through his chest at the unfiltered happiness on all of their faces. 

“That’s my family,” Frank says, so feather soft it could be a whisper. 

Bucky looks up at him, finds his eyes flooded with so much emotion he’s practically bursting with it. Glancing back at the picture, Bucky ghosts a touch over where Maria sits, swallowing hard past the rock lodged in his throat. 

“They’re beautiful,” he tells Frank, just as hushed, and means every word. 

Frank gives a raggedy inhale and nods, and when Bucky lifts his head back up Frank’s looking at him with such a raw intensity it rips away Bucky’s ability to speak. Bucky licks his lips, and Frank mimics the gesture, and they do nothing but stare for a bit until Bucky finally breaks the moment and holds out the picture for Frank to take. It gets put away where it came from, and they both end up on the mattress under a thin sheet after Frank cuts out the lamp, swaddling them in black. 

Bucky lays on his back and stares up at the exposed beams of the ceiling, fingers tapping a made up beat on his chest. He shifts his head just a little to catch a glimpse of Frank where he lays on his side facing the room, back to Bucky so he can’t see his face. He watches the way Frank’s back moves with each breath he takes, halfway mesmerized by it. 

“There is no safe place, is there?” he finally gets himself to whisper several breaths later, giving voice to something that’d been niggling at the back of his mind for weeks. 

Frank goes a little tense when he says it, and after a pause he responds, “Nothing specific, no.” 

Bucky blinks, turns back to the ceiling and nods to himself. He expected it, but now that it’s out in the open he can’t help the little shock of disappointment he feels in his stomach. 

“I hoped-” Frank starts, wavers a beat, then continues, “I don’t know, a shelter, military base, maybe the CDC. Somewhere that could take us in-” and Bucky doesn’t miss the significance of it,  _ us _ \- how somewhere along the way they became a unit, no longer one without the other- “Guess that was pretty foolish, huh?” 

Bucky shrugs even though Frank can’t see him; he gets it, probably better than most. 

“No use carrying on if we can’t give ourselves something to reach for,” he says back. 

Frank goes quiet, and a beat later he rolls himself over onto his back so he can flick a glance Bucky’s way. 

“I didn’t mean to string you along,” he mumbles, but Bucky shakes his head. 

“You didn’t,” he says, flopping his head back to the side to catch Frank’s eyes. “I could have left whenever I wanted to. I wanted to stay.” 

Something flashes over Frank’s face at that, there and gone in the space of a second, and he blinks at Bucky with an unidentifiable look behind his gaze before he finally nods, exhales heavily and rolls back over. Bucky watches him a few moments longer, then slowly turns onto his right, body curled towards Frank’s back so close but yet not enough to touch, and he falls asleep like that to the steady whooshing huffs of Frank’s breathing.

-

They stay in the shack for as long as they can, passing time with card games after Bucky finds a moth eaten deck inside of a drawer and reminiscing on more old memories to fuel their nostalgia. It’s a nice reprieve from the weeks spent in the car, but it’s not built to last and they know it; they’re forced back on the road some time later when their supplies start to dwindle too low in search of somewhere new to stock up, and end up running across a small ramshackle town not too far away. 

Some of the buildings are too decrepit to venture inside, but they find a grocery store that’s stable enough and stocked from what they can see through the windows, so Bucky pushes past his hesitation and heads in after Frank, sneaking on quiet feet to not alert the small group of Moaners shambling not too far down the street. 

It’s an unspoken agreement that they stick together as they creep around inside; they’re not taking any chances, not after what happened last time, so Bucky trails Frank closely while they comb down the aisles with one hand glued to the handle of his gun where it sits beneath the waistband of his pants. 

Some of the shelves they pass are stripped down to their bare bones, but there’s enough food left to pitch Bucky to the side where the duffle on his shoulder weighs him down once they stuff it in. It pulls an ache into his muscles, and he knows he’ll wake up with a sore neck in the morning, but with no idea how long they’ll be traveling this time around they’re not looking to pack light. The fewerstops they make the better, even if Bucky does relish the opportunity to stretch his legs. 

He finds a little box of Twinkies sitting lonely on the bottom of a rack and picks it up, shaking it at Frank when Frank glances to see what he’s found. Frank makes a face, but he says nothing against it, so Bucky counts it as a win and shoves it in along with everything else. 

They make it to the other end of the store, fingers grasping at some of the remaining drinks on the shelves when something shifts up near the front. 

They both freeze and look to each other when the noise happens again a little further inside. Frank holds out a hand to keep Bucky behind him and takes a silent step forward, another and another after that, and Bucky pulls his gun and slinks after him. A wide eyed peek around the corner of the aisle, and Frank scans what parts of the store he can see from where he stands. It’s a few tense seconds, but he turns to Bucky a moment later with his brows creased, moves like he’s going to shrug when a bang echoes off the walls, loud and unforgiving, and Frank goes pale, a rough yelp ripping from his throat as he goes crashing to the ground. 

Bucky’s stuck for a moment, gaping as he tries to comprehend what just happened, but his brain catches back up to him sooner than later and he blanches. 

“Frank!” he cries, frantic as he scrabbles towards where the other man lies on the floor clutching at his leg with clenched teeth. 

Bucky drops to his knees, hands hovering over Frank’s body and unsure of what to do. Blood seeps through the material of Frank’s pants over his thigh- he’s been shot, no two ways about it, and in an act of panic Bucky sets about attempting to rip the left sleeve of his shirt from his arm to use as something to stop the bleeding. 

A glance over his shoulder in the direction of the gunshot shows him something he wasn’t expecting to see: a woman, face as purely shocked as Bucky feels as she stands there with her gun still raised. 

“Shit,” she says suddenly, then finally seems to realize what she’s done and hisses, “Shit!” again louder before holstering her piece and rushing to help. 

She kneels at Frank’s other side, but Bucky doesn’t have time to think about the fact that a random, armed stranger is squatting mere inches away from the only person in this damn hellhole of a world he cares about- too busy ripping at the threads of his sleeve. The woman catches sight of what he’s trying to do and scoots his way, offering a hand, and Bucky relents and turns his left arm towards her. 

“I’m so sorry,” she keeps saying, over and over again like a broken record while they tear at his shirt. 

It comes off eventually, but Frank is pale faced and coated in a layer of sweat by the time they finally get it wrapped around his leg. Bucky can see the way he tries to play his reaction down, but the pinched look on his face and the way he’s clamping his teeth down onto his lips until they bleed tells him everything he needs to know. He grimaces, smoothing a hand over Frank’s forehead. Frank looks up at him with foggy eyes and leans into the touch. 

“What the hell is going on in here?!” a voice calls from the entrance, followed by a loud shushing noise, and Bucky would jump if he had the energy but instead just tenses up, turning his head towards the source. Two men come barreling around a display shelf, one obviously older than the other with a look of angry confusion scrunching up his features. 

“He was shot,” Bucky answers automatically. 

Beside him, the woman replies, “I shot him.” 

The older man glances at Frank lying prone on the floor, breath coming out as halting pants, and the look becomes more pronounced. 

“I thought-” the woman continues a beat later, then swallows, “I thought he was one of the Plagued.” 

The older man stares at Frank a moment longer and then shakes his head, motioning at the woman to stand. 

“It doesn’t matter,” he says hastily. 

Bucky lifts his head up to face him and doesn’t hide the afronted look he feels wrinkling up his nose.

“We need to get out of here. Now.” 

“That shot you fired off alerted the Rotters outside,” the other man- practically a boy, really- beside him adds in a thick accent, running a hand through his shock of bleach blond hair to push it away from his eyes.

The woman furrows her brows, shaking her head. 

“No,” she says, then firmer, “No. We can’t just leave him here!” 

“He’s not our problem,” the older man hisses, and Bucky has an intense moment of deja vu when he hears it. 

“So we’re just going to let him die?” the woman fires back. “We leave him here and he’ll bleed out, or, worse, those things outside will get to them both before he gets the chance.” 

And then she levels the man with a look so intense it gets him glancing away. 

“Do you really want to have their blood staining your conscience when you know good and goddamn well we can do something about it?” 

The man's lip twitches and he runs a hand over his mouth, fingers tracing the lines of his goatee as he thinks, torn. He looks back down at Frank again, who’s lolled his head back against the cool tile floor and closed his eyes, throat working as he tries to fight back the pain. Bucky grips his shoulder tightly to let him know he’s there and whispers without turning to look, “Please.” 

The man watches him for a beat, and then he’s throwing his hand away from his face with a huff and turning his back on them both. 

“Fine,” he says, and he doesn’t sound happy about it. “Fine. But if we do this and these two assholes end up looting our camp and making off with our shit,” he points a finger at the woman, “That’s on you.” 

She doesn’t reply, moves to hook one of Frank’s arms around her shoulders instead as Bucky does the same and lifts him to stand. 

Frank groans, balling a fist into the fabric of Bucky’s shirt as he wobbles on one foot. The kid moves behind them when they start to walk for extra support and the other man takes the lead, directing them out of the store and onto the cracking remains of the sidewalk. 

The Moaners from before are closer now, shambling towards them as fast as their broken legs can carry. A few gain speed, and the kid at the rear lifts the rifle in his hands and pops them each in the head as Bucky and the woman hurry to get Frank across the street where there sits a waiting van. 

Frank is laid down in the back, and Bucky tosses in his duffle before he crawls after to sit at Frank’s side. The man and the kid hop into the front seats and the woman shuts the back doors behind her once she’s safely inside, dropping down opposite of Frank and Bucky against the rumbling wall as the van starts up and peels out. 

She watches them for a bit, sizing them up, and finally says, “Dinah,” once she seems to determine they’re harmless enough. 

Bucky tips his head vaguely, answers back, “Bucky,” then gestures to Frank beside him and adds, “This is Frank.” 

“Ma’am,” Frank croaks out from where he’s got his eyes shut and his head tilted back against the wall. 

His hand reaches out for something, and Bucky starts a little when he realizes it’s his own, but he laces their fingers together and holds it tight in his lap, running his thumb in sweeping motions over Frank’s knuckles. 

Dinah smirks a little and draws her legs up, rests her arms on her knees. 

“Sorry about Tony,” she says. “He’s a little paranoid.” 

Bucky shrugs. 

“Dealt with worse,” he replies, and Frank snorts. 

The drive seems to go on for ages, mostly in silence; with only the front windshield to look out of, Bucky is at a loss for where they could be, but he knows it’s not anywhere near where they’d been. The trees are more plentiful here, growing tall, lush and golden and red along either side of the road for miles. He watches them fly past, lost in a sea of swaying leaves, as he rests his head against Frank’s own where it lays on his shoulder. 

The van pulls off down a narrow, rocky road a bit later, winds deep into the woods until, finally, they come to a halt. Tony and the kid- Pietro, he’d said his name was- hop out first. Tony stalks off while Pietro comes around back to open the doors, helps Bucky and Dinah maneuver Frank out and gets him standing on the ground. 

Bucky takes the time to look around while Pietro leads them away in the direction of a small cabin; they’re surrounded by forest, trees closing in on them like a shield on all sides, and then, a little ways downwind from the cabin, sits a large, glimmering lake. 

It widens Bucky’s eyes, lips parting at the sight of it. 

It’s beautiful with the way the sunlight reflects off of its surface, and he spots a little pier jutting out over the water, gets taken back to summer vacations and late night college dares before he’s snapped back into reality. 

There’s a small camp set up some feet from the cabin with tents pitched in whatever space they could find, a fire pit dug into the earth surrounded by logs and chairs and pots and pans, clothing lines strung up with clothes flapping in the breeze. He can see more people milling about as they pass by, and each of their heads turn to watch the newcomers approach. 

Bucky spots Tony standing next to two men, talking and gesturing rigidly in his and Frank’s direction, and the men spare them a glance. A second later one of the two, handsome and dark skinned, peels away and comes jogging up to meet them at the foot of the cabin stairs. 

“Sam,” Dinah says, adjusting Frank’s arm on her shoulder. “He’s been shot. I don’t know how deep it went but he’s losing a good amount of blood.” 

Sam steps up to Frank, concern all over his face, and looks him over. After a moment he nods, moving aside so they can make their way up the stairs. 

“Get him inside,” he tells them before turning around, “I’ll get the med supplies.” 

They do as he says; the stairs are a struggle, peetering this way and that as Frank grits his teeth and growls, but they manage it, letting him collapse onto the bed of the single bedroom in the back once they make it in. He goes with a huff, wiping a heavy hand over his face. 

Dinah spares him a worried look. Her mouth is drawn into a thin line, and Bucky can practically feel the waves of guilt radiating off of her as she stands there. Frank must feel it, too, because despite everything he sighs and drops his hand, looking up at her with drooping, exhausted eyes. 

“Don’t,” he tells her, and her face tightens, but Frank shakes his head. “It was an accident, okay? I would’ve done the same thing in your position. Let it be.” 

She looks like she wants to fight back, but Sam chooses that moment to walk in with a medical bag in hand, and she drops it. Pulling up a chair from the corner of the room, he plants it beside the bed and takes a seat, sliding on a pair of latex gloves before he leans forward to peel Bucky’s makeshift bandage back. He makes a face at the blood, then carefully unwraps the sleeve and sets it aside. 

“Alright,” he says, moving his eyes to Frank’s. “I know we just met, but I’m gonna need you to take off your pants.” 

Bucky has to bite his lip to hide his smile and Dinah turns her head to conceal her own. 

Frank watches Sam for a moment, then sighs again like it’s the hardest thing in the world and says, “Okay.” 

Sam glances in Dinah and Bucky’s direction, and Dinah nods, silently turning to leave the room. Bucky hesitates for a moment, unwilling to leave Frank’s side, but Frank makes a grab for his hand again and squeezes it as tight as he can muster. 

“Go,” he tells him. “I’ll be okay.” 

“I’ll be making sure of that,” Sam tacks on, rummaging through his bag. “He’ll be good as new in no time.” 

Bucky smiles at it, and Frank offers one back, giving his hand one more squeeze before he lets go. Bucky gazes after him a beat and then stands and makes his way to the door, turning at the last second to tell Sam from over his shoulder, “Thank you.” 

Sam glances at him and dips his head, and Bucky looks to Frank one last time before he finally moves away. He makes his way back outside, shielding his eyes from the sun with his hand as he clomps down the stairs.

There’s a man loitering near the side of the cabin that steps up when his feet hit the grass, and Bucky recognizes him as the other man Tony had been talking to when they’d first arrived. He’s tall and blond haired, holds a friendly smile on his face as he approaches. Bucky watches him, wary, but considering they’d let him into their camp at all he figures whatever he’s coming to say can’t be too bad. 

“Hey,” the guy greets once he’s close enough, holding out a hand. “Steve Rogers.” 

Bucky glances at his hand and takes it, gives it a hearty shake. Rogers’ grip is a strong one, and his hand is calloused and rough against Bucky’s own- the hands of a working man. 

“Bucky Barnes,” Bucky replies. 

Steve nods, dropping Bucky’s hand and stuffing his own back into the pocket of his jeans. Bucky spares a look over Steve’s shoulder at the camp set up behind him, gestures fleetingly towards it. 

“Guessing you’re the man in charge around here?” 

Steve shrugs, almost bashful about it. 

“In a manner of speaking, yeah,” he answers, twisting around to peek at the people wandering around near the tents before turning back Bucky’s way. 

“Figured I should introduce myself. We’re glad to have you here,” he flashes Bucky an apologetic smile, “Even if the circumstances aren’t exactly the best.” 

Bucky raises his brows- no shit. 

“Thank you for letting us in,” he says instead, because his ma raised him with manners. “Not a lot of people would, nowadays.” 

The look behind Steve’s eyes takes a grim turn and his mouth twists at the edge when he hears it. 

“We’re not that kind of group,” he says, firm, and Bucky knows it could be a line but something has him yearning to believe it anyway. “Any survivors come to us needing somewhere to stay, who are we to turn them away, right?” 

Bucky licks his lips, watching Steve for a beat, then responds, softly, “Right.” 

Steve’s mouth tips up at the corner. “That is to say, you’re both welcome to stay with us for as long as you want. I know the others wouldn’t mind two more sets of hands helping out around here.” 

Bucky snorts, can’t stop the little smirk that creeps onto his face. 

“I appreciate it,” he says, and he looks Steve in the eye, lets him know he means it. Steve nods, and then he’s looking away back towards the cabin. 

“How’s he doing?” he asks, and Bucky sighs a little, rolls his lips. 

“Okay,” he says, but the word comes out a little stilted. “Shocked, probably, but,” he shrugs, “Who wouldn’t be.” 

“Well, I can tell you right now you can stop worrying,” Steve says, and Bucky glances back at him with a slightly raised brow. “Sam’s the best field medic I’ve ever seen- even if the setup isn’t perfect, your friend is in good hands.” 

Bucky nods, chewing on his cheek. He has to believe it, has to have hope. If not, he doesn’t know what he’ll do. 

Steve studies him, then jerks his head towards the camp. 

“C’mon,” he says, taking a step backwards, “I’ll help you get a tent set up.”

-

They pick out a spot on the outskirts of the little tent city to set up their things and get to work. A woman nearby drops what she’s doing and wanders over to help- she introduces herself as Natasha, and Bucky learns that the tent closest to the one he’s pitching belongs to her. She smirks, flicks her fiery hair from her face and greets her new neighbor cheekily when he tells her his name, and something about the twinkle in her eyes makes him fiercely glad they’re on the same side.

He spots Sam trotting towards them a bit later when he steps back to wipe a hand over his brow, sweaty even with the autumn breeze, and can’t stop the momentary sinking of his stomach, the barrage of  _ what if _ ’s that circle through his mind like a pack of vultures. Sam must be able to see it written on his face, because he yells out, “He’s fine!” once he gets close enough for Bucky to hear. 

Bucky closes his eyes and breathes out a wobbly sigh of relief, then opens them again and moves to meet Sam halfway. 

“Bullet came out clean,” Sam adds when Bucky steps up to him. “No fragments, didn’t knick anything major and wasn’t too deep. He got lucky.” 

Bucky nods, opens his mouth, but Sam, practically clairvoyant, beats him to it. 

“You can see him,” he tells him, and Bucky instantly bolts towards the cabin, barely hears when Sam shouts after him, “Don’t rile him up too bad, he needs his rest!” 

Frank is lying flat on his back, eyes closed and arms wrapped around his middle when Bucky tiptoes into the doorway, and he almost thinks Frank’s asleep until he cracks open an eye. He’s tense until he sees who it is, and instantly any and all stress drains out of his body like someone had flicked a switch. Bucky makes his way into the room and sits gently down on the side of the bed, and they waste a few seconds just looking, picking out every little detail of each other’s face like they haven’t laid eyes on one another in years. 

“Hey,” Bucky whispers after a bit, and Frank hums, lifts a hand and moves it to take ahold of Bucky’s. 

“Hey,” he says back, and Bucky smiles. 

“I’m glad you’re okay,” Bucky says, and he means it so intensely his whole being burns with it like the sun. “You had me worried.” 

“Yeah, well,” Frank shifts a little, face pinching with the movement, “Not the first time I’ve been shot.” 

Bucky scoffs, feather light. “Let’s hope it’s the last.” 

Frank’s lips curl up at it, and he taps his thumb against the back of Bucky’s hand. Bucky watches it, gaze glued onto where they’re connected. 

“How long’d he say ‘til you’d be back on your feet?” he asks a little while later. 

Frank gives a partial shrug. 

“I don’t know, depends. Few weeks, probably. Then we’ll head back out.” 

Bucky works his jaw, and after a beat he tells him, “I think we should stay.” 

Frank gives him a funny look, opens his mouth like he’s going to fire something back, but Bucky talks over him. 

“Frank, I’m serious,” he says, looking Frank in the eye, and Frank slowly closes his mouth again. “Think about it- we have nowhere to go. We’ve been stuck on the road for days, it’s starting to get colder and even after our last stop we’re still running low on supplies. They have food here, shelter, fucking  _ sleeping bags _ and  _ pillows,  _ Frank, and water. Hell, we could bathe ourselves properly for the first time in  _ months  _ with that lake out there. And we won’t be alone anymore.” 

Frank still doesn’t look convinced, slanting his eyes off to the side. His finger taps a little wilder against Bucky’s hand, but Bucky, determined, tugs on it to get him to look back up. 

“It’s the smart play and you know it,” he continues, and Frank, try as he might, can’t argue with it. He just huffs, but he melts a little when Bucky raises their joined hands and presses them to his mouth. 

“This could be our safe place,” he says, hushed, and can see the moment when Frank’s walls break down. 

“Just think about it,” he adds, and Frank sighs. 

“Yeah, okay,” he finally says as he gives Bucky’s hand a squeeze, and Bucky closes his eyes, pecks a fleeting kiss against Frank’s knuckles. Frank makes a little noise in the back of his throat and pulls their hands down to do the same to Bucky’s, and Bucky smiles at the way it sings electricity under his skin, can’t believe it when he thinks too hard about it, how far they’ve come to get to this point. 

Frank scoots himself over a little as best he can and Bucky crawls into the bed beside him, their laced hands coming to rest between them against the raggedy, stained comforter. They lay like that for as long as they can get away with- when Dinah comes in to offer them dinner and Sam comes in to check Frank’s wound and beyond. 

Bucky stays by Frank’s side as often as he can over the days, and Frank takes comfort in his constant presence, but he doesn’t hesitate to shove Bucky out every few hours, complaining about how Bucky shouldn’t stay cooped up all day just because he has to. Bucky never kicks up a fuss, but he’s not above grumbling, delights in the way it makes Frank’s face light up on a laugh. 

He spends his free time meeting the rest of Steve’s group- Pietro’s sister, Wanda, who ropes him into collecting edible berries and mushrooms mere minutes after introducing herself; Peter, a kid all of sixteen who grasps his hand too tight and shakes it too long as he babbles on about how excited he is to have new people joining their camp, and Thor, a hulking mass of a man with arms the size of Bucky’s head. Bucky feels like a shrimp to a whale when he stands next to him, but Thor just grins at him, slaps him on the back hard enough to make him stumble forwards several inches and tells him he’s glad he and Frank are here. 

Bucky nods, doesn’t fight a smile; he’s more than glad, too, and each day spent among them seems to solidify that fact. 

Frank seems to be wearing down, too. He doesn’t continue to try to find excuses for leaving, and eventually, one quiet morning as they’re just waking up, he admits he enjoys the vague semblance of some type of stability. 

Bucky smiles at him, tilting his head against Frank’s shoulder, and finally lets himself truly settle into the idea that maybe, just maybe, they’ve found a home. 

-

Bucky’s hauling buckets of water from the lake up to the camp with Sam a week and a half later when he catches sight of a figure making its way shakily down the cabin steps, and he groans at the instant realization of who it is. 

“I thought you were supposed to be recovering,” he says once he’s put the bucket up and made his way over. 

Frank looks at him, then makes a point of looking himself up and down. 

“I was. I recovered.” 

Bucky shakes his head. “You’re limping.” 

“I can walk,” Frank tells him, and Bucky gives up. Heaven help a man so stubborn. 

He stays by Frank’s side as they walk back to the camp together, and when Sam sees him he raises a brow, then shoots Bucky a look. Bucky just shrugs-  _ don’t argue with it _ \- and Sam makes a face but relents, dipping a rag into one of the buckets and using it to wipe down the rifle in his lap. 

Steve catches sight of them on their approach and straightens himself up from where he’d been bent over speaking with Peter, and Peter sends them a happy little wave that Bucky returns with a gentle smile. Steve’s wearing a smile of his own as he moves himself to face them. 

“Look who it is,” he says, extending a hand. “Nice to see you on your feet, Frank.” 

Frank takes Steve’s hand in his own and gives it a shake, dipping his head on a curt nod. Steve studies him before their hands drop, cocks his head just slightly to the side and shoots Bucky a glance. 

“You sure you should be up so soon, though?” he adds after a beat, and Frank snorts, doesn’t hide the roll of his eyes as Bucky heaves a sigh beside him. 

“I’m fine,” Frank echoes what he’d told Bucky earlier, at the same time Bucky says, “No use fighting him on it, I tried.” 

Frank twists his mouth and jabs Bucky in the arm with his elbow, and Bucky squawks an affronted noise, retorts with a shove to Frank’s shoulder like he’s five. Steve watches them bicker with a warm flicker of amusement in his eyes, finally interjects when Frank looks about three seconds from putting Bucky into a headlock. 

“Well, I hope you don’t mind your new accommodations now that you’re up and moving around. It’s not a queen bed, but the sleeping bags we’ve got are pretty comfy.” 

“I can attest to this,” Tony butts in as he passes them by, a bundle of laundry held precariously between his arms. Their eyes follow him as he wanders off towards the clothing lines, but Frank is the first to turn back around, brows creased in the middle as he levels Steve with a borderline confused look. 

“What’s up with that, by the way?” he asks, gestures a fleeting hand towards the tents around them. “We’ve got a building on the property, a house, and you’re making everyone sleep outside on the ground like a pack of dogs?” 

If Steve’s offended by the tone, he doesn’t show it; he glances up at the tents himself, instead, scanning his eyes over every one of them. 

“Lack of space, mostly, and the heat. I can tell you right now, there’s nothing worse than sleeping surrounded by eight other people in a tiny cabin with no air conditioning in the middle of the summer,” he tells them, and Bucky spares the cabin a glance. He can’t argue with it- it’s one thing, he realizes, when the only two people inside had been him and Frank, but imagining everyone else crammed into such a small space at the same time, he can see why Steve prefers to keep them in their tents for as long as he can. “We’ll move ourselves inside eventually when the winter really starts to settle on top of us, but until then the tents seem to do just fine.”

Frank takes another glance at the tents, and after a hesitant second he finally nods, huffing a soft sigh out through his nose. 

“I’ve slept in worse places,” is what he responds with, and it makes the corners of Steve’s mouth tick up in a brief smirk. 

They’re interrupted when a heavy hand claps itself down atop Steve’s shoulder, and instantly all heads are turned towards the source; Thor stands by Steve’s side with a crossbow slung over one shoulder, motions his head towards the treeline once he’s caught everyone’s attention. 

“You heading out?” Steve asks, and Thor nods. 

“To try my hand at catching us something for dinner that doesn’t come in a can,” he answers, and Steve can’t help but chuckle at it. 

Bucky stands up a little straighter when Thor says it, interest piqued, and takes a small step forwards. 

“You’re going hunting?” he asks, and Thor dips his head again. 

“I am. Do you hunt?” 

“I do, actually,” Bucky tells him, then pauses and amends, “Well, did. Not often, but. I know the ropes well enough.” 

“It’d be a pleasure to have you join me, if you’d like,” Thor says, and Bucky’s whole being perks up. “It’s been a long while since I’ve had company on my trips.” 

Steve rolls his eyes, and Bucky gets the sense there’s some inside joke he’s missing when Thor grins his way. 

“I’d love to,” Bucky replies once the moment passes, and Thor turns that sunshine smile on him. Bucky spares a look to his side at Frank and nudges him softly in the arm, and Frank gazes back at him with a raised brow. 

“What’d’ya say?” Bucky asks, voice lowered just for him. “Feel like helping out? I’ll even let you hold the gun if you ask nicely.” 

Frank snorts and gives his head a soft shake, but he says, “Yeah, what the hell,” anyway, falls into Bucky’s side when Bucky beams and wraps an arm around his shoulders, tugging him close. 

Peter, from where he’s sitting on a chopped up log near Steve’s feet, chooses that moment to look up, eyes flitting between Bucky and Frank, Steve and Thor. 

“You guys are going hunting?” he asks, parroting what Bucky had asked himself, earlier. 

Thor takes a beat to glance at Steve, then nods Peter’s way, murmuring, “We are, yes.” 

Something behind the boy’s eyes comes alive when he hears it, and he leaps up, dropping the broken camera he’d been fiddling with to the ground in his haste. 

“Can I come, too?” he asks, nearly buzzing out of his skin at the thought of it. A number of silent looks is exchanged throughout the others, wary, when another voice butts it’s way in from behind them. 

“Come where, exactly?” it asks, and Bucky cranes his neck around to find Tony, laundry free, standing at his back with his arms crossed, looking for all the world like Bucky’s mother when she’d found him in the middle of doing something he knew he wasn’t supposed to do. Peter, on the other hand, seems oblivious to anyone’s reluctance. 

“Hunting with Thor and Frank and Bucky,” he says, easy as the breeze, and Tony gawks. 

“Absolutely  _ not _ . Are you out of your mind? You wanna go over the top five list of ways to get killed again? Because that’s, like, at least number three.” 

Peter’s face falls like someone had flicked a switch, hopeful to devastated in the span of a second. 

“Tony,  _ please _ ,” he begs, at the same time Steve says, “It’s not that bad.” 

Tony just shakes his head, looking part way to shocked they’d even consider it. 

“No. No! You’re running out in the woods with a gun you don’t even know how to shoot, and I’m not there to keep an eye on you to make sure you’re okay-” 

“He’s not going to be alone,” Bucky cuts in, and Tony levels him with a glare and raises an accusing finger towards his chest. 

“Don’t you think for one second that just because you haven’t done anything yet means I trust you even a  _ little  _ bit,” he hisses, and Bucky recoils slightly, put off by the tone. Frank turns to Tony with a snarl on his lips, but Bucky grips his arm and shakes his head when Frank glances back to look at him.  _ Don’t escalate the situation _ . 

“Stand down, Tony,” Steve pipes up, and the firm bass of his voice has Tony withering just the slightest bit, the careful metal shell he’d wrapped himself in cracking just so slightly. 

“He won’t be safe,” Tony says, and it’s weaker, wavering. 

“We would keep him safe,” Thor affirms him, warm and true in his confidence of it. Bucky feels like anyone would have a hard time not believing something when it’s said in Thor’s words, and he can see the way Tony’s resolve crumbles a little more. 

“I can show him how to work a gun,” he adds, possibly to his own doom. “It’s a good skill to have.” 

Tony scoffs. 

“Good skill to have,” he mumbles under his breath, runs a hand over his face and then rests it against his cheek. He looks to Peter who’s still pleading with those puppy eyes of his, and exhales harshly. 

“ _ Fine _ ,” he caves, and Peter grins, pumping both fists into the air in victory. Tony moves the hand from his face and points it between Frank, Bucky and Thor. “But you better keep him out of trouble. I mean, not a  _ scratch _ . Treat him like your sixty thousand dollar Porsche your rich uncle got you for your birthday.” 

Bucky scrunches up his face at the simile, but he guesses it works. 

“We’ll bring him back in one piece,” Frank says, shooting Peter a look, and Peter returns it with a smile so infectious Frank can’t stop one from creeping its way over his own lips. 

“One piece and  _ alive _ , thank you,” Tony stresses, and Thor chuckles. 

“Have faith, Stark,” he hums, giving Steve’s shoulder one more pat and steps off, tightening the crossbow over his arm. 

“We will return before sundown,” he tells Steve, and Steve nods at him, thumping him affectionately on the arm. 

Turning his head in the other direction, Steve yells out for Sam who shows up a few minutes later with the rifle he’d been cleaning in hand. Bucky reaches out for it and Sam plants it in his grasp. 

“It’s already loaded,” Sam tells him, and Bucky inclines his head, thanking him softly. 

“Good luck,” Sam adds, and Steve repeats the sentiment which, after a moment, reluctantly, Tony echoes as well. Thor raises a hand to them and then looks back to his little haphazardly put together hunting party. 

“Well then,” he says, “Shall we get started?”

-

Thor leads them off in the opposite direction of the cabin. He’s been back here a few times, he tells them, to hunt and map out the camp’s surroundings. He knows the forest well enough and treks on through overgrown brush and fallen, decaying trees, crossbow held tightly in both hands with his trigger finger at the ready. 

He nails a few squirrels he sees dashing lightning quick through the branches, and the suddenness makes Peter jump the first couple of times, but he gets used to it soon enough, sticks closely by Frank’s side as they make their way deeper into the woods. 

“Hey, hey, hey,” Bucky whispers a little while later, holding an arm out to stop the whole group, then gestures with two fingers slightly off to the side. 

There, grazing between the tree trunks, stands a large buck. 

It’s not yet aware of their presence, content as it goes along on quiet hooves. A peek at Peter shows him slack jawed and wide eyed, glued to the gentle way the deer flicks its ears and roves its head when it thinks it hears something. Bucky’s reminded of how Peter had said he was from New York, like Frank, and wonders if this is the first time the kid has ever seen a buck like this in the flesh. 

“Psst,” he breathes in Peter’s direction, and when Peter turns to look he flicks his own eyes down towards the rifle in his hands. Peter follows his gaze and freezes, swallowing hard. After a moment he finally nods, and Bucky slinks up next to him, careful not to make any noise. Gently, he passes the rifle into Peter’s loose grip, guides him into the right position and tries to remember what his father had taught him all those years ago, and what Frank had taught him only a month before. 

“Steady,” he murmurs, looking over the kid’s shoulder to make sure he has a good aim. 

Thor stands not too far away with his sights focused on the deer, but Bucky can feel the way Frank’s eyes are latched onto his back instead and don’t look away once. It lifts his lips a little, and once he’s sure Peter’s good he steps back just enough, but still close if something were to go wrong. 

“Okay,” he says, voice still hushed. “You got him nice in your sight?” 

“Yeah,” Peter whispers back, and he sounds a little jittery, but his stance holds strong. 

“There you go, that’s good. Now, when he steps a little closer I want you to squeeze that trigger, okay?” 

Peter nods again, mumbling, “Got it.” 

It’s several more tense seconds of waiting that feel like days, but soon enough, Peter grounds himself, breathes, and fires. The shot makes contact and the buck drops like a sack of potatoes, and Bucky grins, grabbing the kid by the shoulder when he lowers the rifle. 

“That’s what I’m talking about!” he cheers, and Peter, finally catching up to what he did, starts to smile back. “Congratulations, you get to go tell everybody back at camp you caught them their dinner.” 

Peter giggles, high off of the adrenaline, and presses the rifle back into Bucky’s hands so he can go help Thor with the kill. Bucky watches him trot after the larger man, and after a moment he turns his head to the side and finally meets Frank’s eyes. They’re warm and tender like the smile on his mouth, and it melts Bucky a little despite the chill in the air. 

“You’re a good teacher,” Frank says softly when Bucky moves over to him, and Bucky hums. 

“I learned from the best,” he replies, and he doesn’t miss the way that smile on Frank’s face gets a little bigger. 

They help Thor and Peter haul the deer back into camp; Thor stops them several more times to add a few more squirrels and a rabbit to the bunch he’d already collected, and by the time they return the sun is hovering just over the line of the horizon, as orange as the leaves on the trees around them. 

“We bring a feast!” Thor announces, and it draws the others out to circle around the firepit in preparation. 

“Told you he’d be fine,” Frank says over his shoulder at Tony when they walk past before Peter practically tackles the poor man to the ground, raving on and on in detail about how he took the deer down. 

Tony watches after Frank and Bucky while they help the others set things up, and a beat later whispers, “Thank you,” so softly they almost miss it. They nod, and Tony flicks a small smile their way before dragging Peter off to collect some firewood. 

Bucky joins Thor in skinning the animals along with Sam, and soon enough they’ve got them roasting over an open flame. Frank and Dinah hand out plates and mismatched utensils, whatever they can find, while Natasha hands out drinks and Pietro and Wanda rummage around for salt and pepper and anything else they can add in. 

Bucky ends up on a log with Frank to his side once all's said and done and everyone else has planted themselves in seats around the fire. Steve goes around adding portions of meat to each person's plate, and once he’s in his rickety lounging chair hands and forks are flying to dig into their food. Frank wolfs down the deer on his plate without pausing for a breath, and Bucky can’t blame him, isn’t doing much better himself. The juices from it coat his fingers and leave his lips shining, and he spares a glance Frank’s way to see if his lips are the same, dives into the fantasies of how they’d taste before boxing those thoughts back up and putting them away for later. Food is his main priority right now. 

“Y’know,” Tony says after he swallows the food in his mouth. “I’m not even a big venison fan, but this might be the best meal I’ve ever had the pleasure of shoving into my face.” 

Beside him, Pietro groans in gluttonous agreement, and Thor lifts his Gatorade bottle and cheers, “Hear, Hear!” 

One by one each person lifts their own drink and repeats the sentiment, then tips them back all at once and takes a collective gulp in unison. They lower their drinks with grins on their faces, and Frank tips his head up to look Bucky in the eye and raises his bottle one more time. Bucky gives a close-lipped grin and taps their bottles together, and he feels more than hears the way Frank chuckles at it and takes one more swig.

The meal continues on quietly for a bit after that; everyone’s so preoccupied with filling their stomachs there’s no thought spared for talking, but once second helpings start to go around the conversation begins to get more lively. 

“... I swear, he must have been eight- nine feet tall. And he stopped and stared at me, and  _ I  _ didn’t know what to do so I just stared back, but just like that,” Pietro snaps his fingers, and Wanda, beside him, very quietly rolls her eyes, though the curve of her mouth is nothing but fond, “He turned and the next thing I know he’s just-  _ poof-  _ gone. His eyes were so human, I’m not kidding you, it was terrifying.” 

Tony’s less inclined to hide the way his gaze turns up towards the sky once Pietro’s finished with his story. 

“That is  _ such  _ bullshit,” he gripes, and Dinah jabs an elbow into his ribs, sending him tipping precariously to the side. 

“Is not!” Pietro shoots right back as Tony levels Dinah with a grumpy pout and rubs at his flank. 

“I’m sorry, kid,” Tony says a second later. “I just can’t suspend my belief enough to entertain the idea that you had an encounter with  _ bigfoot _ .” 

Pietro gapes, and the incredulous look on his face makes Bucky stifle a laugh in his forkful of canned veggies. 

“But you can believe that the dead have risen and are trying to kill us on a daily basis?” Pietro says, and Tony holds his hands out and shrugs. 

“I can see them. I have undeniable proof.” 

“I could see bigfoot!” 

“It’s not bigfoot,” Bucky interrupts with a hand over his mouth before he swallows, and all eyes turn to him, “But I did see a UFO once.” 

“You’re shitting me?” Frank rasps next to him, and he shakes his head. 

“Right after the sun went down, I went outside in my backyard to grab the dogs and it was hovering right over the treeline. Then, split second, it took off so fast I couldn’t even tell which way it went. It wasn’t a flying saucer or anything either- it was like this weird, cigarette shaped thing with flashing lights just, stuck there.” 

Frank’s still giving him a look like he’s trying to decipher if he’s really telling the truth or not, but Tony points a fork in his direction. 

“See, I can believe that,” he says, and Pietro, if possible, finds it in himself to look even more dumbfounded. 

“But you can’t believe bigfoot?!” 

“There’s a solid scientific basis for the existence of extraterrestrial beings,” Tony tells him, matter of fact, and Pietro barely stops himself from throwing his arms into the air. 

“So is there for bigfoot!” he almost yells, and everyone finally breaks down and laughs. 

Clean up is a group wide event once dinner is over, taking plates and utensils to wash up and put away for next time and tossing empty cans and bottles in the trash heap they’ve built up in the back of an old pick-up truck to be carted off later. What remains of the deer and squirrels is stored to pick on for lunch the next day, and once everything is tidied up and the fire is put out one by one each person bids the rest good night and retires to their tents. 

Bucky collapses next to Frank with a huff after he’s crawled inside theirs, slinging an arm over his eyes while Frank twists himself to zip up the flap. 

Frank settles down onto his back, and after a few moments Bucky lets his arm fall back to his side and lolls his head over to run his eyes over Frank’s profile. He looks peaceful, the creases around his eyes and his forehead softened underneath the long strands of dark hair that fall over them. Bucky watches him, then reaches a hand out and brushes the hair away with tender fingertips. 

Frank’s eyes flutter before he turns his head to meet Bucky’s, and Bucky smiles, something Frank can’t fight when one slides over his own mouth. Frank grabs for Bucky’s hand and Bucky lets him- he holds it firmly, bringing it to rest on his chest over his heart. Bucky sighs, rolls onto his side and tilts his head down to rest his forehead against Frank’s shoulder. 

“Thank you,” he whispers into the dark some time later. 

He feels Frank shift, and after a beat hears him mumble out, “Why?” 

“For making me feel like I’m not alone,” Bucky answers, and Frank is silent for a good few moments after. 

“You’re not alone,” he finally says back, hushed. “Long as I have a say in it, yeah? You won’t be alone ever again.” 

And Bucky believes him. He doesn’t know if it’s the foolish puppy love he’s found himself fallen into, or just Frank himself, always so stalwart in everything he does, but he believes him, and falls asleep with that promise ringing in his ears. 

-

Routine is easy to fall into. Chores rotate each day like a cycle to spread out the work, keeps everyone busy and the camp from falling apart under the weight of all the odds against them. 

Bucky sits at the edge of the lake, bare feet soaked with the gentle waves that lap at his toes and the pebbly shoreline, and rubs a shirt up and down over a wash board until his arms ache. He’s split the bulk of the clothes with Natasha who’s sat beside him doing the same thing with a board of her own, and they waste the time away with idle chatter, this and that, bits and pieces of lives best left buried in dust. Nat gets up a little while later with a bundle of soggy clothes in her grasp and hikes back in the direction of camp to hang them, and Bucky’s left alone with the tranquil quiet and his thoughts. 

It’s a relief, he thinks, to be able to sit back and breathe. Relax muscles that’ve been tense since he stepped off of his front porch for the last time, sleep without one eye open. Little luxuries he never thought he’d be afforded, and he cherishes each and every one of them as he gazes out over the treetops rustling gently in the wind. 

A fish splashes somewhere in the distance, and a bird sings from its perch high above, and if Bucky closes his eyes, he can almost pretend that nothing has changed. That the world hasn’t ended. And maybe… maybe it hasn’t. 

What he’d known is gone, but when he pushes himself to stand with an armful of sopping clothes and looks out over the tents and the people bustling around them, he’s hit with the realization that something new is being built in its place, and he figures it’s just a matter of time before things find a way back, in some shape or form, to what they were. If there’s one thing humans are known for, it’s bouncing back despite the worst. Even the living dead are just another hurdle to jump in the long run. 

Bucky trudges his way back towards the camp with his washed clothes, nodding his head at Pietro when the kid walks past. Movement catches his attention from the corner of his eye, and he turns his head, squinting to better make it out. 

There, on the edge of camp, stand Steve and Frank; axes in each of their hands, they step back and swing, decimating logs and sending hunks of wood flying. 

Bucky pauses mid-step to watch, and his squint turns to a wide eyed gape at Frank’s shirtless state. It’s not that he hasn’t seen Frank shirtless before, of course not- living together in close quarters for months on end means at some point someone is going to get naked, and there’s no way to avoid it- but the ripple and bulge of muscle with each lift and fall of Frank’s arms, the smooth way he twists himself to accommodate for the weight of the axe in his grip. It’s stunning, like losing yourself in an 18th century erotic painting, and leaves Bucky’s mouth drier than the Sahara Desert. 

Frank strikes the blade deep into the center of an already chopped trunk, splitting it down the middle to make it smaller and easier to handle, and then lets the axe drop to rest the head of it against the ground. He leans his weight against it, wipes a hand over his forehead, then bends down to pick up his shirt where it’d been discarded off to the side to pat it over his face. He throws it back to the grass when he’s done with it, looks up and catches Bucky off in the distance frozen in place and lifts a hand on a wave. 

Bucky moves to wave back before he remembers the clothes in his hands and just stands there awkwardly instead, doesn’t even realize his mouth is still hanging open like a fish until Natasha says from behind him, “The flies appreciate their new home.” 

He starts, just a little bit, and shuts his jaw with a ‘ _ clack _ ’ before turning to send Natasha a glare from over his shoulder. Natasha just smiles, candy sweet, and continues on her way back to the lakeside. Sparing Frank one last look- and lingering slightly longer than he’d meant upon noticing Frank had started back up on the wood again- Bucky finally turns and resumes his trek up to the clothing lines to hang the bundle in his arms up to dry. 

The rest of the day goes much the same way, slow paced and quiet. Peter and Pietro run down to the lake later in the afternoon to hunt for frogs while Tony tinkers with Peter’s broken camera, convinced he can get it to work, and Sam shows Bucky the basic ins and outs of field medicine. Pietro ends up terrorizing Wanda with one of the larger frogs he caught by chasing her around the camp with it held tightly in his fist, but she gets back at him when she hides it in his can of green beans at dinner that evening. The scream he lets out has the group genuinely concerned it could wake the dead, but they still exchanged hushed giggles over it while they scoff down canned spaghetti, ravioli and soup. 

The meal isn’t much of an event, and soon Bucky finds himself back in his tent after everyone’s said their goodnights and retired, leaned back nice and comfy with his head resting in Frank’s lap while Frank cards his fingers through Bucky’s hair. They scratch gently at his scalp, and the feeling of it droops his eyes until he’s fighting to keep them open. 

Frank hums, the only sound besides the crickets in the quiet of the night, and runs his fingertips behind Bucky’s ear and down his neck, making Bucky sigh gently and shiver. 

“It’s gotten a lot longer,” Frank says quietly, tracing the strands all the way down to where they end just below Bucky’s collarbone. “Be a nice handle for one of those Moaners to grab ahold of given the chance.” 

Bucky snorts, turning his head up to look at Frank better. 

“That’s the pot calling the kettle,” he says and reaches to drag his own hand through the thick fluff of hair flopping over Frank’s forehead. Frank huffs a soft chuckle and wrinkles up his nose when Bucky pushes the hair back from his face, only to let it go and watch as it falls back down over his forehead again. 

“I think this is the longest I’ve ever had it,” he tells Bucky, and Bucky traces a line down his temple and over his jaw through his beard before his hand drops back down onto his own chest. “Probably time to give it a cut, huh?” 

“I like it,” Bucky says, and Frank raises a brow. 

“Yeah?” 

Bucky ‘ _ mmm _ ’s, tilting his head into Frank touch when Frank pets his entire palm over his scalp. 

“Though, I don’t think a haircut would be a bad idea,” he adds a few beats later as he runs his fingers through the scraggly hairs of his own beard. “And maybe a shave.” 

“Shave would definitely be nice,” Frank agrees. 

“I can ask if they’ve got any razors or anything tomorrow, maybe some scissors?” Bucky asks, and Frank gives him a little nod, says, “Alright.” 

Bucky lifts his hand one last time to ghost over the shape of Frank’s jawline, doesn’t miss the way Frank leans towards it like he’s begging for the touch. 

“I am gonna miss this, though,” he says to Frank’s beard, bordering on a tease, and Frank laughs, finally pressing his face into Bucky’s palm. 

Bucky swipes his thumb over the apple of Frank’s cheek, watches as Frank’s eyes slip closed, and smiles.

-

Steve does have scissors, they find the next day, but they have to make do with a straight razor that Sam’s been hauling around since long before the plague struck. They thank them both and move downwind from the tents a little ways for the illusion of privacy, pulling up a fallen tree trunk to use as a makeshift seat. 

Frank takes the plunge first, settles himself as nice and comfy as he can on the log and rests most of his weight against his elbows where they sit across his knees. 

“You know what you’re doing back there?” he asks, playful, and Bucky makes a face at the back of his head. 

“I had three little sisters, and haircuts weren’t cheap,” he says as way of explanation, and hears Frank chuckle softly at it. 

He picks at a few strands of hair where they curl away from Frank’s head, and asks, “How short?” 

“You know how I had it before, when we first met?” Frank says, twisting his neck to send Bucky a glance from over his shoulder, and Bucky nods. “Like that, but a little shorter on the top, yeah?” 

Nodding again, Bucky grunts an affirmation and takes the scissors in hand, collecting a bit of Frank’s hair between his index and middle fingers and gets to work. 

It’s not salon quality, he knows, but he does what his mother taught him, practiced motions he’d used on his sisters more times than he could count, way back when. 

Snipped locks of hair fall around Frank’s face, landing on his shoulders and spilling down his back to the ground as the mess of it atop his head gets shorter and shorter. He doesn’t move the whole while, keeps his eyes closed and taps a finger in gentle rhythms against his knee when Bucky takes the straight razor to go at the shorter strands on the sides of his scalp. Bucky smooths it nice and soft over his temples, over the back of his neck, and once all's said and done he ruffles the top of Frank’s head to brush away any loose hairs and swipes away the ones that coat Frank’s shirt like a fuzzy blanket. 

“Beard now,” he says, and he knows there’s no need to whisper but it comes out hushed anyway, like he’s scared to crack whatever fragile moment they’ve created. Frank turns himself around on the log so that they’re face to face and Bucky moves into a squat, takes Frank’s jaw in a tender grasp in one hand and lifts the razor up to his cheek with the other. 

Frank keeps his eyes open this time, and they never falter from Bucky’s face for a second. It should be uncomfortable, Bucky thinks, the way his gaze follows his every move, one stroke after the next, but it’s anything but. It’s warmth, like golden sunshine on his skin, bathing him in a light so blinding and bright he feels like he should run from it but he can’t, won’t. Instead he lays in it, lets it wash over him until it’s all he can feel, sparking him up like a firecracker in ways he never thought possible. 

He runs his thumb feather light over the sharp, smooth line of Frank’s jaw when he’s finally finished, exploring skin he hasn’t seen in weeks, maybe even months if his concept of time isn’t as skewed as the rest of the world. 

Frank breathes out heavily, and his eyelids flutter like they’re going to close before he clears his throat and pushes away to stand. Bucky follows after, and when Frank motions his head at the log and says, “Switch up,” he hands over the scissors and razor and moves himself to sit. 

“How about you?” he asks, listening to the rustle of Frank shifting around behind him. “Should I be scared of walking away with a bald spot?” 

“Only if you squirm,” Frank replies, and Bucky can’t stop himself from snorting. 

He’s a good boy and keeps still while Frank works; the feeling of lessened weight hanging from his head is an odd one, and with each cut he feels lighter and lighter until he thinks he might just float away. 

He tries to think back to the last time he’d cut his hair- it must have been several months before everyone had gotten sick. He’d been nothing if not attentive to his looks, and his hair had been his pride and joy above all else, but once the illness struck and he’d left home it’d all fallen by the wayside in the face of survival. Now, with each snip of the scissors near his ears, he feels reborn. Not who he was before- not with all he’s been through, what he’s seen- but someone new, finally settling into his place in the world. 

Frank runs his fingers through the strands to fluff them up, then gently pats him on the shoulder to get him to turn. He does, reaching up to feel the finished product for himself. It’s not as short as he used to have it, but it’s nowhere near how long it’d been; the longer locks of it at the front flop into his eyes where they’re just that side of too short to tuck behind his ear, and he scratches his fingers over his neck and the base of his scalp, feels where it’s closer cropped. He wishes he had a mirror more in that moment than he has since the beginning of the apocalypse, but the look Frank’s giving him, wide-eyed and flustered, has him thinking he probably looks more than okay. 

Frank mimics him from earlier and crouches down, guiding him gently to tilt his chin up so he can get a good angle and start working at his beard. He hadn’t thought much of it when he’d been in Frank’s position, but sitting here now he’s struck by the unassuming intimacy of the act, the way Frank’s fingertips ghost along his jaw, turning him this way and that as he shaves away the scraggly hairs on his cheeks. He can feel how his face defiantly flushes a bright red from such intense scrutiny and the way Frank hovers so close he can feel the soft whooshes of hot breath hitting his skin, and he sends out a silent thank you for the fact that Frank is too occupied with what he’s doing to notice. 

It’s not long before Frank steps back, and Bucky raises a hand to run over the soft, newly smooth skin of his cheek. It’s nice, he thinks as he glides fingertips over skin where there once was hair, then takes Frank’s hand when it’s offered and hoists himself back up to his feet. He pats himself down, brushing away errant locks from his clothes, and when he glances back up Frank’s still got that deer in headlights look on his face. It’d almost be funny, if it didn’t have Bucky’s brows creasing in the middle in slight concern. 

“Everything okay? You didn’t fuck up somewhere, did you?” 

Frank snaps himself back to normal enough to roll his eyes, lifts his hand to run it over the longer bit of hair on the top of his head. 

“No, asshole,” he says, and Bucky can’t help it, he smiles. 

“Just-” Frank licks his lips, drops his hand and shrugs. “You look nice, is all.” 

Bucky’s initial instinct is to sass him back, keep up the smart ass act, but the sincerity in Frank’s voice stops him, turns his smile a little softer. He dips his chin, chewing on his lip like a schoolgirl with a crush, and replies, “Thank you.” 

Frank nods, and when Bucky lifts his head Frank’s staring at him with something swimming around behind his eyes that pushes him from a cliff and leaves him breathless with the drop. 

Frank hesitates, opening his mouth and then pausing before closing it again, and swallows. 

“Can I kiss you?” he finally asks, almost timid in a way Bucky’s never seen from him before, and Bucky feels how his entire body goes tingly from his toes right up to the top of his head so fast it gives him vertigo. He doesn’t know how to respond for a moment, but sooner than later his brain catches up with him and he nods, maybe a little too hard. 

“Yeah, yes. Please,” he says, doesn’t stop that smile on his lips from tipping up into a giddy little grin. 

Frank smiles back, then takes a little step forward that Bucky meets with his own until they’re pressed flush up against each other, gazes locked. Frank licks his lips again, and Bucky huffs a little laugh through his nose that gets Frank smiling wider and tilting down his chin. He looks back up a beat later, and his eyes are softer now, something quiet and reserved just for Bucky, and Bucky melts like warm butter. 

Frank leans in a little closer, and closer, and closer and finally- finally their lips meet. Bucky feels like a livewire, electric down to the tips of his fingers, and he lifts a hand to grasp tightly at Frank’s wrist when Frank reaches his own to cup the side of Bucky’s neck in his palm. 

They pull back a few seconds later but don’t move far, sharing the same breath as their noses bump together, and for a few beats no one says a word. 

“That was nice,” Frank eventually whispers, and Bucky hums an agreement, that smile still stuck permanently on his mouth. 

Frank wastes a few seconds brushing his thumb back and forth over the skin in front of Bucky’s ear, and then asks, “Can I do it again?” 

Bucky practically giggles and nods, murmuring, “Yes, yes,” so Frank tilts his chin and does. 

Bucky brings his other hand to rest on Frank’s waist and pull him closer, and Frank goes pliantly, moving into his space like he was meant to be there. And he is, Bucky thinks, tipping his head to the side to deepen the kiss just that much more. There’s no fighting the feeling of  _ right  _ burning him up from the inside, how their bodies mold together so perfectly it’s like they could have been part of each other once, separated just to find their way back to one another again. Bucky doesn’t believe in fate, but if he did, he’d bet his bottom dollar it was only a matter of time before he and Frank fell into step together and started the domino effect that’d lead them to this point. 

Frank moves away a few drawn out seconds later and rests his forehead against Bucky’s, and Bucky glides his hand from Frank’s waist up and up until he can hook his arm around Frank’s neck to keep him close. Frank runs his thumb again over Bucky’s cheek, then shifts his hand to graze his knuckles over the shell of Bucky’s ear. 

“Thank you,” Bucky mumbles, and Frank ‘ _ mm _ ’s. 

“For not giving me a shitty haircut,” Bucky continues a second later, and beams at the way Frank groans and pushes him away. He slings an arm over Bucky’s shoulders right after and tucks him into his side despite it, and Bucky nuzzles into his warmth, his own arm wrapped around Frank’s hips as they start back up in the direction of the camp. 

Frank returns the scissors and Sam’s razor, and he and Bucky both don’t miss the wolf whistles and catcalls aimed their way when the others get a good look at them. 

“What’d’ya know, you boys clean up nice,” Natasha teases, and Bucky gripes at it and the looks she’s sending him over his flushed cheeks. 

“We’re just full of surprises,” Frank shoots back, and Natasha laughs. 

-

There’s a commotion going on up near the driveway by the cabin. Bucky puts down his knife and the stick he’d been sharpening into a makeshift arrow for Thor and hurries over to see what all the fuss is about. 

The van is back, and the sight of it sitting parked in the dirt haphazardly so soon after leaving has Bucky faltering in his steps, nerves pinching his brows together. 

Already there’s a small crowd gathering around the hood, tense and coiled in their worry as they wait to hear news of what went down; they practically swarm Natasha when she finally jumps out of the back, and with her comes Tony, face contorted into a grimace of pain as he tries to slide to his feet. Natasha catches him and slings his arm over her shoulder, and soon Steve is hopping out of the driver's seat and making his away around to help. 

“What the hell happened?” Bucky asks when he’s close enough, catching sight of Frank slipping from the passenger side out of the corner of his eye. 

“Yeah, why don’t you tell them what happened, Rogers?” Frank says, coming around the front of the van, and the tone of his voice takes Bucky aback for a split second. 

He’s fucking pissed- it radiates off of him in waves, seething out of his pores, and it does nothing to help ease the confused concern Bucky feels swirling in his gut. 

Steve says nothing, but his mouth is pressed in a tense line and stays that way as he hands Tony off to Sam for a look over. 

“The farmhouse we headed into was in bad shape,” Steve says a few strained seconds later, wiping a grimy hand over his forehead. “Roof caved in on us, and Tony’s leg got caught under the rubble.” 

“Looks like a pretty rough break,” Sam says off to the side, and Tony scoffs, then winces. 

“I’m fine,” he waves off, but Steve shakes his head. 

“No, you’re not,” he shoots back firmly, and behind him, Frank twists his lip and sneers. 

“And whose fault is that?” he says, berating. 

Steve turns to look at him, and Bucky’s eyes flit between them both, almost certain for a moment that the two of them are mere seconds away from throwing fists. Sam watches them for a beat, making sure they keep from doing just that, and once he’s satisfied there’s no plans for them to beat each other to a pulp he gently leads Tony off towards the cabin with Natasha in tow. Peter, sparing an apprehensive glance Steve’s way, rushes after. 

“Don’t start this again,” Steve says after a long silence once they’re gone, and Frank just snorts, running a hand harshly over his head. 

“Don’t start what, huh? Don’t start back up on the fact you made a shitty call even though I fucking  _ told you _ to leave it alone?” 

“There was no leaving it alone, Castle, it was a person's  _ life _ ,” Steve replies. 

“A life that could have cost us one of our own, you ever think about that?” 

“Of course I thought about that, but I wasn’t going to stand by and do nothing-” 

“Okay, stop,” Bucky cuts in, holding up a hand. Frank and Steve quiet down, but they don’t drop the heavy glares they’re leveling each other with. Bucky pushes on anyway. “You need to rewind the last few hours so the rest of us know what the  _ hell  _ you’re going on about.” 

It’s a few moments of nothing, but finally Steve breaks his death stare with Frank and sighs, dropping his head. 

“There was another survivor,” he says, and Bucky doesn’t miss the look that flashes across Frank’s face when he does. 

“Where?” Dinah steps up and asks. 

“The farmhouse,” Steve answers, gesturing his hand weakly in the direction of the driveway where it disappears through the trees. “We were scouting for anything useful around the property, in the barn, when we heard a noise coming from the house, so- I rounded everybody up, we headed over,” he inhales, then lets out a stuttering breath, “Someone was stuck inside the house. It was teeming with the Plagued, but the guy was screaming for help, so we ran in. The whole place was unstable, and we tried- we tried to get to him but the building couldn’t take it and just. Gave in. We’re lucky we made it out with only a broken leg.” 

“Which we could have avoided if you had listened to me in the first place,” Frank interjects, and Steve scowls. 

“I know where you stand on this, Castle, you don’t have to keep reminding me.” 

Frank gives a little laugh, a bitter, humorless thing, and squints his eyes in Steve’s direction. 

“You sure about that? Because, if you had actually heard a goddamn word I’d said, none of this would have happened.” 

“I wasn’t going to leave him in there to die,” Steve fires back, hard grit behind his voice, but Frank doesn’t back down. 

“So you’d risk us instead? For someone we don’t even know, huh? Is that what you’d do? What if we did bring them back, yeah, and they ended up trying to kill us in our sleep, make off with our supplies. Now you think that’d still be a smart idea, to throw our asses in the fire just for that?” 

“So you just want to, what, leave them to be ripped apart,  _ eaten alive _ , because of some imaginary crime they might not even commit? Survival of the fittest, is that all this is to you?” Steve asks. 

“If we don’t make these decisions then there won’t  _ be  _ any surviving,” Frank hisses, stepping up into Steve’s space, and Bucky moves up a step himself, just in case. “Sometimes you gotta make the hard call to keep the people you care about safe, and that means everyone else might get pushed off that ledge, but you have to live with that or there will be. No. Living.” 

“And where does that end, Frank?” Steve says, and it makes Frank waver for a second, looking at Steve with creased brows and parted lips. “Do we just give up? Do we just throw in the towel on our humanity to keep ourselves alive? What happened to caring for our fellow man? What happened to us that we’re so broken our only option is ‘us or them’? I’m not just trying to survive, Frank, I’m trying to  _ live,  _ and unlike you I can’t live with the thought that there was someone in need I could have done something for and I turned my back on them instead.” 

“See, a mentality like that is what gets you killed out here. We almost lost one of our own today, do you not even regret that?” 

“Do I regret Tony got hurt? Of course I fucking do, but don’t think for one second I have a  _ single  _ regret towards trying to save a man’s life,” Steve says, leaning closer towards Frank’s face with burning eyes. 

Frank’s lip twitches, eyes glassy and burning with rage, and he takes a stalking step forwards with his mouth open and venom filled. Dinah moves in before it can escalate, grabbing Frank by the shoulder and pulling him back. 

“Both of you, stand down,” she says, unflinching and cold as stone. “You can argue until you’re both blue in the face, but it changes nothing about what happened, and this ‘who’s right and who’s wrong’ pissing contest is doing absolutely jack shit for the situation. Step back, go calm down, before you make things worse.” 

She releases Frank’s shoulder, and Steve takes a heavy breath- Bucky can see the way he decompresses with it, but Frank is still wound up like a caged tiger ready to strike. He sniffs, looks off in the other direction and after a second finally walks away. He kicks his foot against a lawn chair on his way back to the tents, and it topples over with a sad creak onto the ground. Bucky watches him go and gnaws on the inside of his cheek, shooting Dinah and Steve a look before he takes off after him. 

The tent flap is open when he approaches and he bends over to take a peek inside; Frank sits with his back to the wall, arms resting out on his bent knees as he stares off angrily into space. Bucky sighs, crawling in and closing the flap behind him. He moves himself down to sit at Frank’s side close enough their shoulder touch, and neither one of them speaks at first, until Bucky finally glances to the side and asks, “You okay?” 

Frank grunts, eyes flicking in Bucky’s direction. 

“‘M fine. Wreckage didn’t fall on me.” 

“You know that’s not what I meant,” Bucky mumbles, and Frank huffs a long breath through his nose. He keeps his eyes glued to the floor, trigger finger twitching where he’s got it held in the grasp of his other hand. 

“You agree with him?” he asks, and Bucky blinks, turning his head to face Frank better. 

“I do, actually,” he says, and Frank finally looks to him then. There’s a lot going on behind his gaze, and Bucky licks his lips, shifting his whole body Frank’s way. 

“For the longest time,” he starts, “I was just wandering. No reasoning behind it, completely aimless, and all I had on my mind was  _ survive _ . One day and the next, and the next after that, just keep going and going and going until I didn’t even know what I was going on for anymore. And then I found you, and then we found this place and now- now I think I found my reason. We’re more than this, Frank.” 

Frank scoffs, just a tiny hint of a thing, but it’s not mean, almost more disbelieving when he turns his head down. Bucky scoots closer, moves a finger beneath Frank’s chin to get him to look back up. 

“I get where you’re coming from, I do. Because I was in that spot before. But there’s so much more than just survival for us. We can  _ live _ . And part of that- part of that is not throwing away what bits of us make us human. I mean, imagine if they’d been thinking like that when Dinah shot you in that grocery store. You really think we’d be here,  _ alive _ , right now? Fuck, I wouldn’t’ve even gotten the chance to know what your lips taste like.” 

It makes Frank give a sudden chuckle, and he scrubs a hand over his face before lolling his head to the side to look at Bucky dead on. 

“I just,” the breath he exhales is shaky, “I can’t lose you. I looked at Tony, you know, and I know I shouldn’t have, but I thought of you. What if you’d been there, you know? What if you hadn’t made it out?” 

Bucky watches him, slowly reaches down to take Frank’s hand in his own, lifting it up between them. 

“That’s a risk we all have to take. But you have to think about the possibility that that wouldn’t happen. What if you had saved him? What if you had this guy who’d been all by himself in the worst position and was grateful to still be alive because of what you did? That’s what it’s all about. The world we live in now, we’re nothing if not there for each other.” 

Frank looks to where their hands are intertwined, and rasps out, “That right?” 

“At least how I see it,” Bucky says softly, and Frank turns his eyes back on him. “We could build a life here, but we have to keep what’s left of ourselves to do it.” 

“Is that what you want?” Frank asks, and Bucky nods. 

“I’d like to. I’d like to- make a life with you. Us, together. If you want that.” 

Frank stares at him with something like wide-eyed wonder, maybe shocked that Bucky would consider something like that at all. He looks to Bucky, gives his hand a hard squeeze and nods his head ever so faintly, tugging on Bucky’s hand to pull him a little closer. 

“Yeah,” he whispers, and Bucky can hear how much he means it, sees it swimming behind his eyes. “Yeah, I want that.” 

Bucky smiles and leans his head in until their noses are a hair's breadth from touching, and revels in their shared space, the way Frank is looking at him like he holds the whole universe in his palm. 

“I’d really like to kiss you,” Frank says a second later, hushed, and Bucky grins, can’t help himself. 

“Okay,” he says, just as quiet, and leans in. 

They meet in the middle, coming together like two pieces of a puzzle locking into place. Frank releases Bucky’s hand so he can take a gentle hold on the back of Bucky’s head and keep him close, and Bucky tilts his whole body forward until it’s pressing up against Frank’s front with not an inch of space between them. 

Frank moves his head for a better angle and Bucky melts into him, moves his own hand to press his fingertips to Frank’s jaw. They part for a second to breathe, lips bumping against each other, and then they’re back at it again. 

It’s not rushed or harsh; it’s slow and heady and heavy with the promise of more, the way Bucky licks his tongue over Frank’s lips and Frank opens his mouth to let him in deeper, fingers scratching through the short hair at the back of Bucky’s head. 

Bucky sighs, gentle and stuttery, tips his head to the other side when Frank breaks away to stamp hot kisses over his jaw and down his neck. Frank’s tongue pokes out to lave at the crease where Bucky’s neck meets his shoulder, tasting salty sweat and bitter skin, and he tugs the collar of Bucky’s shirt out of the way and dips it into the curves of Bucky’s collarbones to chase the flavor. 

Bucky tips his head back and his whole body shivers with the feeling, the way Frank grazes his teeth ever so gently over his flesh until it’s ripe with goosebumps. 

Bucky uses the hand he’s got on Frank’s jaw and leads him back upwards, touching their mouths back together sloppy and wet. Frank makes a little noise somewhere deep in his chest, and Bucky pulls back with Frank’s bottom lip pinched between his teeth before he lets it go. 

Slowly, Frank’s eyes slide open from where they’d been shut tight, and he looks to Bucky with a hunger so plain in his face it leaves Bucky electrified and breathless. His fingers brush against the hem of Bucky’s shirt, and without a second of hesitation Bucky reaches down to pull it off and sets it to the side. Frank’s eyes graze over his chest, down his stomach and then make their way back up to his face; his cheeks are flushed red with arousal at the sight of Bucky before him, pupils blown until his eyes are nothing but black with lust. 

“Do you…?” he trails off, but Bucky gets what he’s going at and leans in, nodding as he does. 

“Yeah,” Bucky murmurs, ghosting his lips across Frank’s jaw. 

Frank’s eyes flicker shut and he breathes in sharp and deep, then dips his head in a quick, vague nod in agreement and moves to rid himself of his own shirt. Bucky leans back to let him, and once it’s gone Frank starts making work of his belt. Bucky bats his hands aside and finishes the job, pops the button on Frank’s pants and slips his fingertips beneath the sagging waistline, eager to explore. 

Frank huffs and tilts his head to capture Bucky’s lips again as Bucky smooths his hands over Frank’s ass, pushing down Frank’s pants as he goes, and Frank takes the time to use those nimble fingers of his and rid Bucky of his own. They slide down Bucky’s thighs, pooling around his knees, but Bucky pays them no mind. Instead he leans his entire weight into Frank until Frank has nowhere to go but backwards, and Bucky goes with him until Frank’s laying flat on his back with Bucky draped over him like a second skin. 

Frank’s hand lifts to push errant strands of hair from Bucky’s face and tuck them behind his ear when gravity causes them to swoop into his face, and the simple act of it coupled with the look Frank’s giving him has Bucky failing to chew back a grin. Frank smiles himself at the feeling of it against his own lips, and it makes Bucky laugh. Frank smooths his hand over the back of Bucky’s head and cups his neck, and Bucky pecks a kiss to his lips and then just lays there, lets their noses bump and their lips brush together as their gazes lock. 

“You’re beautiful,” Frank whispers, and Bucky’s entire being sings. 

He closes his eyes, presses his face against Frank’s cheek. Frank moves his free hand to slide Bucky’s boxers over his hips and down his legs. Bucky shimmies a little to get the rest of the way out of them and shakes them and his pants off of his ankles, and that hand of Frank’s rests itself on the left cheek of Bucky’s bare ass. Bucky hums; Frank gives it a little knead, and the feeling of it makes Bucky’s hips give an involuntary grind into Frank’s crotch. A harsh breath bursts from Frank’s lungs and he thrusts back, running the rough material of his jeans over the silky skin of Bucky’s cock and leaving Bucky groaning and arching his back at the sensation. Frank leans up and chases his lips, and they press together open mouthed, breathing in each others air. 

Bucky pushes his dick back against the bulge in Frank’s pants, and Frank finally scrambles to push them the rest of the way off as best he can with Bucky on top of him, kicking them with one foot off to the side so he can turn his full attention back to the feeling of Bucky’s skin against his own. 

He moves his hand from Bucky’s ass and instead props himself upright with his elbow, knees bent and feet planted firmly on the floor. Bucky settles himself in Frank’s lap and moves his hips a little, testing out the feeling of Frank’s dick slipping between his cheeks, brushing against his hole. He bends over and presses his forehead to Frank’s, one hand gripping Frank’s shoulder like a lifeline while he pops the fingers of his other one into his mouth to get them nice and wet. 

Frank watches him do it with wide eyes, and Bucky feels the way Frank’s dick twitches against his ass at the obscene sounds he makes when he sucks on them, sees how Frank’s gaze follows when he moves them down, down, down between his legs and presses them up against his entrance. They disappear into his ass, and Frank’s eyes never falter as he watches him finger himself, fucking them in and out in a steady rythm until he’s stretched and loose and ready to go. 

He removes them and wipes his hand off on the sleeping bag beneath Frank’s back, and Frank takes his time sliding his eyes back up the expanse of Bucky’s body until he reaches his face again. Bucky basks in the feeling of his attention, the way Frank regards him like some sort of revelation, and revels in the gentle fact he wasn’t the only one feeling it all this time. 

Frank slips his hand from Bucky’s neck and lifts his fingers before Bucky’s mouth, a silent question, and Bucky stares at him unflinching as he parts his lips. Frank rubs his index finger over Bucky’s bottom lip and pushes it in, followed by his middle, then his ring. Bucky runs his tongue all over them, hollows his cheeks and suckles, and Frank draws in a deep breath and lets it back out on a tiny moan. He lets Bucky go on like that for a few more seconds before finally pulling his fingers away. 

Bucky takes a hold of his wrist to keep his hand in front of his face and licks his tongue over that, too, until it’s coated with his saliva. Frank reaches down and uses it to get his dick nice and slick, collects some of the precome beading at his slit and drags that all over his skin as well, and when he moves his hand away Bucky replaces it with his own to keep his cock steady as he starts to sink down. 

Frank groans, tipping his head forward, and his hand reaches up to grip at Bucky’s shoulder blade. Bucky’s barely containing the way his chest is heaving on stumbling pants when he finally lowers himself to sitting against Frank’s pelvis. 

He gives a few experimental grinds, getting used to the feeling of something filling him up, stretching him out until he burns in all the right ways. He sits up a little straighter and lifts himself, then drops, and it squeezes another noise out of Frank so he does it again, and again, slowly working his way into steady tempo as he swivels and rocks his hips in time with the sound of his and Frank’s breathing. 

Frank starts to move with him after a beat, returning every downward grind with an upward thrust. He uses his elbow on the floor and pushes himself up until he’s sitting, and his newly free hand slides up to grab onto the back of Bucky’s other shoulder as he leans in to bury his face in Bucky’s chest. Bucky’s arms come around his neck and hold him there, and Bucky dips his head down and smushes his lips and nose against the top of Frank’s hair. 

He clenches around Frank’s dick and Frank retaliates with a particularly rough snap against his ass, tucks himself up into Bucky nice and deep and gets Bucky moaning out at the sudden feeling of it, mouth agape and eyes squeezed tight as his body tenses and pitches up. His legs shake, and it goes up his spine with a shiver, making his cock jerk and blurt a wad of wet where it’s trapped between his and Frank’s stomachs. 

“ _ Shit _ ,” Bucky keens, and Frank gruffly groans into his pecs in agreement. 

He takes his hands from their whiteknuckled grip on Bucky’s shoulders and drags his nails slow and sharp down Bucky’s back, welting up red scratches in their wake that has Bucky lifting his head with a soft ‘ _ ah _ !’ as his hips stutter to rub his cock against the ridges of Frank’s abs. Frank tilts his head to get a good look at him and smooths his palms back up over Bucky’s flesh. 

“Shh, shh, shhh,” he whispers, resting his hands on the sides of Bucky’s ribs. 

Bucky flops his head back down and presses their foreheads together, eyes screwed shut as each bounce into Frank’s lap pushes a soft moan from between his lips. Frank glides his left hand up over Bucky’s pec and his neck to hold tight once again to the back of his head, and ever so slowly he starts to tip them backwards until he’s back to lying flat on the ground. 

Bucky goes willingly, wanting nothing but to keep him as close as possible, and Frank seems to be feeling the same way when he slings an arm around Bucky’s shoulders to keep him there. His fingers rub softly again and again over Bucky’s skin, and Bucky moves his own hands to cup both of Frank’s cheeks as he grinds himself into Frank’s belly to ease the aching pressure that builds hotter and hotter in his dick, drawing up his balls and leaving him gasping and drunk on it. 

“Hold on, hold on,” Frank says quickly and quietly, and Bucky gives pause and opens his eyes just enough to see what Frank’s doing. 

He lets go of Bucky’s neck to grab ahold of Bucky’s hip and gently pulls out until Bucky’s left gaping and shivering at the cool air rushing in to fill his place, then settles back with his dick flopped up against his stomach next to Bucky’s own and pulls Bucky back down to continue where they’d left off. 

Bucky humps against him, and Frank rolls himself right back into Bucky’s groin with one hand pushing softly against the small of his back to keep them connected. He steals a kiss from Bucky lips and Bucky smiles and steals one right back, and they come like that together, one after the other trading kisses like teenagers tipsy on endorphins and love. 

Bucky presses himself all up against Frank’s body as his cock spurts and slicks them both up with his mess, and Frank lolls his head back and sighs through his own release, the hand on Bucky’s shoulder coming around to rest on Bucky’s cheek. Bucky leans his face into it, nuzzling his nose against Frank’s temple and pecking a kiss there, too, for good measure. He tilts his head back to bump his nose into Frank’s own and finally opens his eyes to find Frank staring up at him with nothing but warmth and happiness on his face, almost glowing with it. 

“I love you,” Frank says, so sudden Bucky almost doesn’t know what to do with it. 

His eyes widen, and his mouth parts as he searches Frank’s face for any chance it could be a ruse only to find nothing but truth. He blinks, and he doesn’t even realize his mouth is split on a large grin until he notices Frank grinning back. 

“I love you, too,” Bucky replies, and by God, he means it. He means it so deeply it’s the foundation of his bones, the blood that pumps through his veins, as true and real as the wind blows. He’s meant it for a while now, creeping up on him so slowly he didn’t notice until it was there one day in the dimples of Frank’s smile, the rough baritone of his laugh. 

Looking at Frank now so full of joy it’s all he can feel until he thinks he might explode with it, and he presses a kiss to Frank’s nose, then his forehead, both his eyelids and his cheeks and his chin, whispering, “I love you, I love you, I love you,” after every one to drive the point home. 

Frank squirms a little under him and laughs, and the smile still stays even when Bucky finishes with one last slow kiss to his lips. 

They stay close even after pulling apart, wasting minutes staring into each others eyes. Frank pets his fingers over Bucky’s cheek, then reaches over to gently tap his finger against the tip of Bucky’s nose. Bucky wrinkles up his face at it and Frank chuckles, and a few seconds later Bucky finally breaks away to slide off and stretch himself out at Frank’s side. His ass stings with pleasant aftershocks and it makes Bucky’s lips curl in satisfaction. 

Frank reaches over a grabs something off to the side- a shirt, whose, no one knows- and uses it to wipe the come from his stomach, then hands it to Bucky so he can do the same. It gets tossed back into the corner when he’s done with it, and he scoots himself over so he can rest his head against the soft muscle of Frank’s chest. Frank’s arm instantly comes around him, running fingers feather light back and forth in soothing motions over his shoulder. His own arm flops over Frank’s middle, and he lets his eyes slip shut when Frank lifts his other hand and grazes his knuckles over the apple of his cheek. 

“I’m sorry,” Frank says into the quiet a little while later. Bucky shifts, tilting his chin up a smidge. 

“About earlier.” 

“I know,” Bucky murmurs and nuzzles himself against Frank’s skin, breathing in the comforting scent of him. “Just apologize to Steve in the morning, yeah? I’m sure he’ll understand.” 

Frank doesn’t say anything back, but he nods, and Bucky figures that’s enough. He feels when Frank leans his head to press a kiss into his hair, and it flickers an involuntary smile onto his lips, high on the fact that Frank is  _ there _ , warm and solid and loves him just as much and Bucky loves him back. 

And isn’t that a thing- that Frank loves him. 

Bucky keeps turning it over in his mind, giddy at the way it makes him feel, and he drifts to sleep still thinking about it with that smile a permanent fixture on his lips.

-

It’s not long before the weather shifts; gentle autumn breezes turn to frigid winter gusts, and any leaves left clinging to the branches of trees and shrubs get snatched away with the rest of what’s left of fall and any life it may have carried. 

Steve finally moves the group into the cabin, and they set aside an entire day to transfer everything from the camp inside, stuffing pots and pans and weapons, clothing and bedding and personal items into every nook and cranny they can find. The tents get torn down and hidden away in a broom closet for the next warm season, and everyone arranges their sleeping bags in whatever empty space of floor is available. Wanda, Pietro and Peter get squeezed together on the bed in the back to save room and Steve pulls straws for the couch. Natasha wins, but she relinquishes it to Tony and his bum leg, still fragile even after healing as well as Sam could get it to, and Tony stirs up a fuss but accepts it in the end. 

It takes some adjusting to get use to the close quarters; privacy doesn’t come easy, and there’s been a memorable time or two where Bucky and Frank had snuck away outside like a couple of teenagers to find some time to themselves, but on the whole it isn’t as difficult as Bucky had anticipated. Cramped, mostly, but if he lays down and closes his eyes he can almost pretend it’s a night spent with his friends huddled in the living room under a canopy of sheets and blankets, way back when. Frank likens it to a camping trip he and his family had taken years before the disease, mashed together in a tent a size too small because he’d misread the label on the package. It makes Bucky stifle a laugh behind his hand, careful not to rouse the others he’s sure are only faking sleep in the first place. 

Supply runs become more scarce; with the worsening weather Steve’s weary about letting his people stray too far, so they try to grab what’s most important- warm clothes, non-perishable food and plenty of water- wherever they can before they lock the whole camp down for the winter. Bucky doesn’t know how he feels about the thought of being confined to such a small expanse of land for so long, but the constant reminder that, at least for a time, he won’t have to stress over the possibility of someone leaving and not coming back makes him feel like he doesn’t have much room to complain. 

At least he’s safe, he finds himself thinking almost constantly. Safe with Frank at his side, and a whole group of people he’s come to care for like family to his back. 

Once everyone is settled, life carries on without a hitch. Bucky stills finds himself getting roped into laundry duty, although he’s forced to wash their clothes in the narrow confines of the single tiny bathroom when the lake freezes over with a thick layer of ice. 

He’s woken up one morning by the quiet sound of chittering voices on the other side of the room, and he shifts, blinking the sleep from his eyes as he moves his face away from where it’d been pressed into Frank’s chest and twists his neck to see what’s going on. 

The kids are all pressed up to one of the only windows in the whole building, whispering excitedly as they stand silhouetted against the bright white light pouring in from outside. Bucky pushes himself up, rubbing a hand over his forehead, and Frank grunts at the loss of contact and curls in a little on himself. It makes Bucky huff a soft laugh, and he smooths gentle fingers down Frank’s arm before making his way to his feet and wandering over to catch a glimpse of what all the fuss is about. 

A peek over Pietro’s shoulder paints a brilliant picture; everything is coated in a thin blanket of snow, nothing to see but blinding white everywhere they turn until the thick forest of trees conceals their view any farther. 

“Can we go out?” Peter asks, eager and hushed. 

Bucky looks to him, then back out the window and flicks up his brows.

“Don’t see why not,” he answers, and Peter pumps his fists in the air before tapping his knuckles against Pietro’s, who turns to snatch Wanda’s hand and drag her away to grab the coats and boots they’d scavenged days before. 

Bucky smiles after them and moves at a slower pace to get himself ready, throwing on a jacket as he moves out the door they’d left open in their rush. Fat flakes fall around him when he takes that first step into the cold open, into his hair and on his shoulders, and he tilts his chin up to stare at the grey clouds above as they open themselves up and pour down on him. His nose scrunches when one lands on the tip of it, melting instantly from the heat of his body, and he hears a laugh behind him at it that gets him jerking around to see who it came from. 

Frank’s standing in the doorway with a closed mouth grin on his lips and mirth shining in his eyes, and when he sees the exaggerated look of offence on Bucky’s face his smile only grows. He steps forward, lifting an arm to wrap it around Bucky’s shoulders. Bucky pretends to gripe about it, but he leans into Frank’s warmth anyway as they plod down the stairs to stand against the snow covered ground below. 

He catches sight of Sam and Dinah off to the side- they must have gotten up before everyone else and made it out early enough to enjoy the silence- and lifts a hand on a wave. They wave back, and then Sam’s eyes are widening and he’s grabbing Dinah by the arm to pull her out of the way as an errant snowball goes flying past and splats into a tree. 

“I’m so sorry!” Wanda calls a little ways away with her hand over her mouth, but a second later her hand is dropping with a shriek when another snowball comes from the other direction and breaks apart against her back. “Pietro!” 

Pietro howls with laughter and takes off with Wanda hot on his heels, and Bucky takes a moment to wonder where Peter went when a clump of snow comes raining down onto Pietro’s head when he dashes under a tree. Bucky looks up, catches the kid balancing on a branch with an armful of snow like some sort of spider monkey, and chuckles. 

He turns his head to look to Frank, gets caught on the way flakes fall into his hair, his eyelashes. His smile goes soft and his hand reaches up to brush some of it away, and when he drops it Frank is watching him with eyes that hold more emotion than a thousand words could convey. 

He leans in, and Bucky takes it as an invitation, closing his eyes and leaning in as well when a handful of snow smacks into his cheek. Bucky squawks and jumps backwards, hands pawing at his face to wipe away the icy cold. He can hear Frank cackling at him the whole while like it’s the funniest thing in the world, but he won’t get the last laugh, not if Bucky has any say in it. Bending over, he scoops as much snow into his hand as he can hold and straightens himself back up. Frank sees the snow in his hand, notices that glint in Bucky’s eye, and his own eyes widen. 

“Oh shit,” he says, trembling with laughter, and runs. 

Bucky darts after him, doesn’t give two shits if he’s acting like he’s five with everyone there to watch, and pounces, tackling Frank to the ground. They go down giggling, and Frank tries valiantly to fight away Bucky’s hands, but in the end he gets a fist full of snow smushed into his face for his trouble. 

“Jesus Christ, I yield, I yield!” he begs, yelping when Bucky shoves a cold finger into his ear for good measure. 

“That,” Bucky pants, propped up smugly on his elbows over Frank’s chest, “Is why you don’t fuck with me.” 

“I’ll fuck with you whenever I want,” Frank growls, a tease, and grabs Bucky so he can flip them over. 

Bucky cries out with laughter when his back hits the ground, arms coming up to hook themselves around Frank’s neck. Frank dips his head in to press a kiss to Bucky’s lips, hovering there with their noses bumping, lips curved in matching smiles. Frank takes chilly fingers and brushes a lock of Bucky’s hair away from his forehead, tilts his chin for another peck when Peter cuts in. 

“What’s that?” he calls from his perch, and both Frank and Bucky twist their necks to try and see what he’s pointing at. 

Some ways away, a figure stumbles near the edge of the lake. 

Frank lifts himself off of Bucky and Bucky pushes himself to sit, squinting at the distance, then takes Frank’s hand when it’s offered to pull himself to his feet. They exchange a look, glancing back towards the lake, and start making their way down. Frank waves over Dinah and Sam and motions for Peter to stay put when the kid makes like he’s going to come scrambling along. Peter slips from the tree anyway, but he doesn’t go any further, and Wanda stops to rest beside him while she watches Pietro join up with the others. 

“What’s up?” Sam asks when he’s close enough, a furrow to his brow. Frank gestures a finger towards the lake, and Sam and Dinah turn their heads to follow it. 

“You think it’s another survivor?” Dinah asks when she glances back Frank’s way. 

Frank breathes out heavy through his nose, eyes never leaving the figure that’s now managed to shamble its way onto the ice, and replies, “Only one way to find out.” 

He leads them down the shoreline carefully, and Bucky’s stomach drops when they get close enough to see what it is. 

“Fuck,” he whispers, and Frank grunts a quiet agreement. 

The Moaner gurgles, swinging its head around on a rotten neck when it hears them. A lipless mouth opens on a choked, wheezing moan and it shuffles at them with mindless chomping teeth. Frank holds out an arm and backs them up away from the edge, muscles tight in anticipation of a fight. But the corpse takes one step and fumbles, feet slipping uneasily on the ice. The sound it makes is almost affronted and it tries again with the same result. One more shaky misstep and it goes down, landing on its side with the wet crack of breaking bones and brittle ice. It growls, rolling over and reaching a desperate arm out as it tries to crawl closer, but it can’t find purchase against the slippery surface and does nothing more than slide around a bit. The group watches it closely, and after a second Pietro huffs a laugh. 

“It’s just tripping all over itself,” he says, eyeing the way it’s struggling with a slightly disbelieving smile tipping up the corners of his mouth. 

A beat later he bends down, digging through the snow until he finds a few stones and chucks one in the Moaners direction. It thunks off of the things skull and falls to the ice, and Pietro chuckles and throws another. He gears up for a third toss when Frank raises a hand in front of him and shoots him a disapproving glare. 

“Stop that,” he says, and Pietro scowls, but listens and drops what’s left in his hand. 

“Hey!” a voice calls out from uphill, and everyone but Frank tears their eyes away to find Steve slogging through the snow towards them. Sam waves him over, and Steve hurries himself along. 

“What’s going on?” he asks on his approach. Frank gestures a hand towards the Moaner on the ice and Steve pales when he finally lays his eyes on it. 

“Peter saw it,” Sam tells him, and Steve takes a small step forward for a better look. “Damn thing wandered out onto the lake and got itself stuck.” 

“You know how long it’s been out here for?” Steve questions, and everyone shakes their head. Steve sets his jaw and stares it down for a long minute while it writhes around on its stomach with his hands on his hips. 

“What do we do with it?” Pietro asks, and Steve glances around like he’s looking for an answer. 

Dinah looks back over her shoulder and lifts a hand to get Pietro’s attention, then motions at a large rock a little bit behind them near a tree. Pietro shoots her a glance and moves to grab it, hauling it back to press into her hand. She takes it and makes a halting step towards the ice, careful to keep herself from falling, and Frank reaches out a supporting arm just in case. She takes it with a soft thanks and bends her knees so she can get closer to the Moaner’s eye level, waving the hand with the rock back and forth near its face to get its attention. 

“Hey,” she says, whistling and kissing her lips at it. It heaves a rasping breath that sounds like a car engine starting up and makes an attempt to claw its way towards her. It takes a bit, but eventually it starts to move in her direction. 

“There you go,” she mumbles. 

She waits until it’s close enough, and once it is she grits her teeth and uses all her might to slam the rock down into its head once and then twice until its skull shatters with the force, leaking curdled black blood and brain matter like a crushed egg and staining the clear ice dark red. Dinah grimaces and tosses the rock, using Frank’s hold to reel herself back in to more stable ground. They all take a moment to look at it, even more lifeless now than it had been and lying prone with its arm outstretched. 

“Now what? We can’t just leave it here,” Pietro breaks the silence to say. 

Steve’s quiet for a beat, and then answers, “We burn it.” 

So they do. 

Bucky helps Sam and Steve drag it off of the ice with Frank, Pietro and Dinah at their backs to catch them if they fall, and they carry it near the treeline before setting it down in a heap. Pietro runs back to the cabin to get the gasoline and matches, and when it’s done they stand watching until the body is blackened to a crisp and put out the flame with handfuls of snow. 

The trek back up to the cabin is a quiet one; Frank keeps Bucky’s hand clenched tight in his own the whole way, but once they’re spotted by the others they’re swarmed with eager questions about what had gone down. Steve steps off to the side once everyone’s calmed down and dispersed a bit, all too content to shake it off and get back to enjoying the snow, but Steve’s mouth stays pressed into a thin line, forehead creased with the weight of his worry. 

Bucky watches after him with a slight air of concern and sends Frank a look that gets Frank glancing Steve’s way, then focusing his eyes back on Bucky. Bucky lifts Frank’s hand to press a kiss to Frank’s scarred knuckles before he gently lets it go and makes his way over in Steve’s direction. 

“Hey,” he says, and it makes Steve spin around a little too quickly. “You alright?” 

Steve opens his mouth, pauses, and then sighs. 

“Yeah,” he says, reaching up to rub his fingers over his forehead and then drops his hand. “Yeah, I just… There’s never been a Rotter that close to camp before.” He licks his lips, and something about the look behind his eyes and the wavering tone in his voice has a sick feeling rattling in Bucky’s gut. “They shouldn’t be this far out.” 

Bucky hesitates, and then tries to placate with, “I’m sure it was just the one.” 

Steve nods, but the pinched look on his face says he doesn’t know if he believes it. 

“Yeah,” he echoes, flashing Bucky a strained smile that Bucky returns, then reaches out to pat Steve on the shoulder before he heads back over to Frank’s side. 

“Everything alright?” Frank asks when Bucky scoots up beside him. Bucky moves like he’s going to nod, then stops himself and bites his lip. 

“He said they’d never seen a Moaner around here before. He’s a little shaken up about it,” he answers back after a beat. 

Frank’s brows crease a little and he reaches over to pull Bucky close. Bucky goes willingly, thankful for the contact. 

“Everything’s fine,” Frank says in that firm tone of his, confident in the fact, and Bucky, despite his unease, believes him. 

-

Thor finds the shed two weeks later. 

He comes running around from back behind the cabin, waving an arm to get the group's attention, and it makes Steve perk up from where he’d been bent over with Sam trying to construct a fishing pole that wouldn’t break under its own weight. 

Steve walks over, and the talk they have is a long one; Bucky keeps sneaking them glances between tallying up cans of food, watches Steve’s face crease up around the eyes as Thor points a finger off into the woods. After a bit Steve turns back towards the others and catches Bucky and Sam’s eyes, and he motions them over. Bucky straightens himself up and gestures at Frank where he’d been showing Peter how to wield a knife, and together the three of them make their way over. 

“Everything okay?” Sam asks when they’re close enough, smoothing his shirt back down after stuffing his pistol into the waistband of his pants. 

Steve nods. 

“Thor found something,” he answers, motioning his head towards the aforementioned man. “I think we should go check it out- could wind up being useful.” 

Sam nods back, and with a glance spared to each of the men Thor leads them off into the trees. 

It’s not too long of a hike through the damp brush and dirt where the snow had melted away and left it barren, but it’s secluded enough Bucky can see why no one had found it before now- Thor admits he hasn’t wandered much back here in the time they’ve been camped out by the lake, but Steve tells him it’s better finding it late than never, and Thor supposes he agrees. 

The shed isn’t much when they finally get to it. It’s small, but what it lacks in diameter it makes up for in its slightly above average height. The wood is rotting in some places and leaves the shed sagging in on itself like a paper bag. Steve and Frank circle it, rapping their knuckles against the boards and nudging at the base of it with their feet to check its stability. Sam wanders up and cups a hand over his eyes to peek into one of the two windows on the side while Bucky moves to jiggle at the door handle. It’s locked, and he grunts an irritated little noise and steps back with a scowl. 

“Well, shit,” Sam says, shifting around to get a better view inside. 

“You see anything?” Steve calls, and Bucky can see from the side where Sam’s lip twists. 

“Yeah,” he replies. “Lots of tools, looks like some of it could come in handy. And a Rotter.” 

“What?” Steve asks, and Sam repeats, “There’s a Rotter in there.” 

Steve and Frank appear back around the corner of the shed and Steve runs a hand over his head, mussing up his hair as he gnaws on the inside of his cheek. Thor walks around to the side opposite of Sam and looks in through the other window, humming thoughtfully at what he sees. 

“It seems as though he holed himself up in there,” he tells them and steps back, pointing out a pile of rusted food tins scattered around the floor when Steve steps over to get a look. 

“Poor bastard probably got bit and couldn’t find anywhere else to go,” Frank mutters, and the thought of it, cast away to live out the rest of your days in agony alone like this, makes Bucky’s skin crawl like it’s coated with bugs. 

“What do we do with it?” Bucky asks after a few moments of silent contemplation. 

Sam makes his way back around to the others and reaches back to brush his fingers over the grip of his gun. Steve catches the movement and shakes his head, holds up a fleeting hand to get Sam to stop. 

“Too much noise,” he says. “If there’s anything else out here, firing that shot would be like ringing a dinner bell.” 

For a bit they fall back into the quiet, looking around for any solution that doesn’t involve giving up and walking away. Frank eyes the door, and after a second he asks, “Is that thing locked?” 

Bucky nods, and Frank works his jaw. 

“If it’s deteriorated enough I might be able to break it open.” 

“It’s got a chain holding it closed from the inside,” Sam adds. Frank makes his way towards the door anyway. 

“I can work with that,” he says, gripping the handle and giving it a harsh turn. It takes a little rough finessing and gritted teeth but he gets the lock to snap and cracks the door open enough he can get a good glimpse at what’s behind it. 

After a beat he steps back, grabs a pocket knife from the back pocket of his jeans and flips it open. Bucky takes an involuntary jerky steps towards him when he places the blade against the center of his palm, but he glances up and sends Bucky a gentle look, placating. 

“‘S okay,” he mumbles, and Bucky huffs through his nose but backs down. 

He still can’t help the little flinch that wracks his body when Frank slices the blade through his palm, watching red bubble up from the cut and spill onto his open skin, dripping through his fingers to stain the brittle grass below. Frank moves back over to the door, and once he’s close enough he whistles to get the Moaner’s attention, then lifts his arm to smear his blood covered hand against the doorframe. Bucky can hear the way the thing limps up to the threshold, and soon enough a rotted face comes poking through the crack in the door, growling and groaning as it’s tongue laves greedily at the blood coated wood. Frank watches it for a moment, then takes the knife and plunges it deep into the side of the Moaner’s skull. It wails, a haunting, shrill thing, and Frank gives the knife a sharp twist and then wrenches it away. 

The Moaner collapses like a dead weight to the floor and Frank sniffs, pocketing the knife before he steps back, squints at the door, and rams his foot as hard as he can against the splintering wood with a rugged yell. Sam raises his eyebrows, and Frank does it twice more before the old chain inside finally gives way and snaps clean off of the wall. The door creaks open a little more before it’s stopped by the body on the ground, but Frank pushes it aside and opens the door wide to let the others in. 

They file inside one by one, stepping over the figure on the floor, and on Steve’s instruction begin to rummage around for anything they can take back to the camp with them. Thor finds a saw, some hammers and screwdrivers, and pokes at a pitchfork lying lonely in a dark corner with a smug little grin. Sam hits the jackpot with a few packages of ammo, bags them even with the very real possibility of not having a gun that could work with it in the first place while Frank grabs a shovel and a baseball bat. 

“Imagine if we had barbed wire, huh? We’d be living in one of those goddamn zombie movies for real,” he jokes as he turns it around in his hand, and Sam and Bucky both snort. 

“We already are, pal,” Steve says back as he strains to reach up and grab a pair of pliers and some chicken wire, and it sobers everyone up real quick. 

Bucky’s snooping around the back when he comes across something that gets his eyes widening on a gasp, and he feels every bit the kid in a candy shop he did the day he stumbled upon the gun counter in the nature supply store, way back when. He leans forwards to pluck it up from the floor and unsheathes it, lifting the machete so the blade catches in the light and glints against the wall. 

“Oh, shit,” Sam grouses when he sees him, and Bucky snickers. “Look who’s going full Indiana Jones.” 

“Jesus,” Frank murmurs under his breath and shakes his head, but there’s a smile ticking up the corners of his mouth and Bucky only beams wider. 

“Don’t be jealous,” he teases, sliding it back into its sheath and tucking in under his arm. “If you’re a good boy, I might even let you touch it.” 

Steve and Thor laugh, Sam rolls his eyes, and Frank tips his head back on an exasperated but fond sigh. 

They gather up their findings and drag the corpse of the Plagued outside once there’s nothing else to scavenge- Thor finds old matches on one of the shelves and they light it on fire when they get it far enough that it won’t burn the shed down before they turn their backs on the blaze and leave, hurrying to carry their spoils back to camp. 

“You okay?” Bucky asks a few hours later when everyone is settled and full from dinner and the tools and weapons have been stored away. He and Frank are holed up together in the single bathroom, sitting side by side on the floor while Bucky holds Frank’s wrist in a tender grasp and wraps a bandage around his palm. 

Frank grunts softly, leaning his head against Bucky’s shoulder. 

“I’m fine,” he replies, then adds a beat later, “Stings.” 

“And whose fault is that?” Bucky shoots back, a gentle tease, and Frank gives a little scoff that gets Bucky chuckling. 

He lifts Frank’s hand when he’s done with it and turns it over to inspect his work, makes sure the bandage is sturdy and tight. Frank laces their fingers together and gives his hand a little squeeze, and Bucky smiles, raising Frank’s hand to press his lips against the back of it. 

Frank hums and nuzzles his cheek against Bucky’s arm, bringing their hands down to hold against his thigh, and says, hushed, “Love you.” 

It never ceases to stir up those butterflies in Bucky stomach, shoot that tingly adrenaline through his veins like nothing else, and he tips his head to rest against the top of Frank’s and sighs. 

“I love you, too,” he says back with every bit of him, and Frank smiles.

-

Bucky’s jerked awake early in the morning by the sudden sound of a blaring car horn, and he blinks wide eyes into the dark until they adjust enough that he can sit up and look around. 

To each of his sides people are shifting, snuffling as they’re roused from their sleep by the noise. Frank rolls over and pushes himself up onto his elbows with a grumpy squint, and Bucky spares him a glance before his attention turns to Steve, who’s stumbling over to the window to peer outside. It’s a few drawn out seconds of silence as everyone waits to hear the verdict, but finally Steve spins around. His face is ashen, eyes glazed over with a cold fear that twinges at that bundle of nerves sitting deep in the pit of Bucky’s stomach. 

“What is it?” Natasha asks, face pinched in concern. 

Steve walks right past her, making a beeline towards the closet where they’d stored the weapons they’d found in the shed hours before. 

“Get the kids,” is all he says, terse and tense. 

“What?” Natasha asks again with confusion lacing her tone. 

Sam crawls out of his sleeping bag and makes his way over to the window to take a look for himself while Steve digs around for whatever he can carry, and slowly but surely the rest begin to stir into motion and climb to their feet. 

“Fuck,” Sam says abruptly from the window, a white knuckled grip on the sill. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.” 

He spins around to face the sea of anxious faces and tells them, breathless, “It’s a horde of them. They’re swarming in from the driveway, must’ve bumped against the van” 

It sweeps a blanket of numbing dread over the group; Bucky can see the second the severity of the situation dawns on each of their faces, and he glances to Frank who sends him a look back that, for one of the only times Bucky has ever seen, is apprehensive. 

“What the hell do we do?” Dinah speaks up after the shock settles in, just as Steve approaches with a bundle of weapons in his arms. 

“We need people with the kids,” Steve repeats. “The rest of us will buy you as much time as we can so you can get them to the van.” 

“And, what, just leave you here?” Dinah asks, almost offended at the idea. 

Steve holds out Thor’s crossbow when he steps up to take it, and says, “If that’s what it comes to.” 

“This is insane,” Dinah mutters under her breath, but she takes the baseball bat when it’s pressed into her hand. 

“It’s not like we have many other options,” Steve shoots back. “My top priority is making sure the rest of you stay alive, and if that comes at the cost of my own life, so be it.” 

Bucky scoffs, disbelieving, and shakes his head. They’re both right- the whole thing is madness, but there’s not much else they can do. He can already hear the hoarse, ragged groaning of the Plagued as they draw closer, and he tightens his grip around his machete when Steve hands it over. 

“Shit,” Frank hisses at his side, and Bucky looks over with a crease between his brows. 

“Empty,” Frank explains with a frown, motioning to the pistol in his hand. 

Bucky sucks on his lip and then moves into the small kitchenette, poking through the cabinets until he finds his duffel bag and the SIG he’d kept hidden inside when he and Frank had first arrived. 

“Here,” he says, handing it over with a pack of ammo. Frank takes it gingerly and sends Bucky a grateful glance, murmuring softly, “Thank you.” 

Bucky nods and leans in to stamp a quick kiss to his temple, then the corner of his mouth. Frank turns and catches Bucky’s lips full on, and they try their best to savor it, weighed down with the knowledge it might well and truly be the last time they ever taste each other again. 

Stumbling feet against the creaky floorboards get them both looking up; Sam has ushered Wanda, Pietro and Peter into the main room, and they stand huddled together with wide, frightened eyes, roving their gazes around like they’re unsure of what to do. Dinah steps up to them, placing a gentle hand on Peter’s shoulder in an attempt to spread some calm. 

“Alright,” Steve says once everyone is equipped with their gear. “Sam, Dinah, you two have the kids?” 

Sam and Dinah nod, standing to each side of the little group like guards. Steve nods back, then gestures to Tony where he leans against the back of the couch. 

“Tony, I want you to go with them.” Tony opens his mouth, but Steve raises a hand to stop him before he can start. “No arguments- with your leg the way it is, you and I both know it’s the safest option.” 

Tony clamps his mouth shut and glares, but he doesn’t fight it, knows it’s the truth. 

“The rest of you,” Steve continues, turning to who’s left, “Are with me. We go out the front, keep as many Rotter eyes on us as we can. The others will go out through the back and make a straight line to the van. We’ll try to catch up if we can, but if it seems hopeless, I want you to go.” 

Dinah breathes in deep and long, but she nods with solemn eyes, and Steve dips his head back. 

“Well then,” he says, fixing his grip on the shotgun in his hand. “Let’s go kick some ass.” 

Thor bursts out of the door first, sending two arrows into the heads of the first two Moaners that turn in his direction. The rest of them pour out after- Natasha ducks between another pair and pops up behind them to slam the sharp edge of a shovel into the back of another one’s skull, and Frank darts down the steps with his gun blazing, dropping bodies left and right with loud, guttural cries and not a hint of mercy. 

Bucky swings his blade at one coming up on his front, spins around before he can watch the head slide to the ground to shove it through the chest of another, finishing it off with a heavy blow to the side of the face. 

It’s an absolute massacre; everywhere he turns is carnage, from the way Natasha zigzags between the milling herd of corpses, breaking legs and bashing in heads, to the way Steve obliterates the skull of any Plagued that wonders too close with scary precision. 

Bucky catches a glimpse of Sam and Dinah leading the others out from behind the cabin, crouched low and sneaking glances at the fight near the front as they make their way quiet as mice in the direction of the van. Bucky watches them for as long as he’s able until three Moaners at his side force him to pry his eyes away and rejoin the fray. 

It’s not even a minute later when he hears the first scream. 

It’s agonizing and shrill, followed by a piercing, “Tony!!” in what is unmistakably Peter’s voice. 

Bucky’s stomach drops, and he whips his head around to see if he can get a look at what’s going on. It’s only flickers through the bodies running amok, but Tony’s on the ground, several of the dead hunched over him, digging into his belly with eager hands as he shrieks and writhes. Sam’s holding Peter back by the shoulders a little ways away; the kids struggles in his hold, face red and snot slick as he bawls and yells. Dinah tries her damndest to nail as many Moaners as she can, but in the end it’s too much and she’s forced to retreat, but not before another wail is heard over the chorus of raspy growls and moans. 

It’s Wanda, grasping tight to Pietro’s hand as a Moaner comes loping up unexpectedly from behind and takes a big hunk from his neck. Bucky turns his eyes away then when he hears shaky feet running at him from the other direction, but he can still hear Wanda howling, “No! No!” even when Sam and Dinah finally get her to let go and drag her away. 

Bucky yells, charging at a Rotter and its gnashing teeth and cuts the thing’s head clean in two. A quick look around shows the herd is getting thinner, but it’s still enough it’s giving them trouble, and he grits his teeth, wipes the sweat from his brow with a blood stained arm and carries on. 

He can’t find Natasha no matter where he looks, but he catches sight of Steve when the other man goes down trying to keep as many of the Moaners as he can away from Dinah and Sam. 

A hard lump forms in Bucky’s throat, making it hard to breathe, and he has a moment of panic when he starts to wonder,  _ is this it _ ?  _ Is this where it ends _ ? 

A gunshot snaps him out of that morbid train of thought as he turns to see Frank with the muzzle of his SIG aimed at where a Moaner had just been over Bucky’s shoulder. Bucky swallows harshly and sends him a thankful nod. Frank nods back before he turns to take down a few more, and for a moment Bucky allows himself to revel in the selfish satisfaction that, at the very least, Frank is still here. 

His gaze lingers a little too long on Frank’s retreating back, and he doesn’t notice the Rotter at his side until it’s too late. Bucky whirls around, and he barely has time to yelp before the thing has its teeth clenched into the meat of his left shoulder and bites, throat working on a grating snarl. The weight of it crashing into him sends them both to the ground in a tangle of squirming bodies, and the thump of his back against cold, hard dirt pushes the breath clean out of Bucky’s lungs. He wheezes, gasping for air, and grasps desperately for the machete he’d dropped. 

His fingers find it soon enough, and he grabs it tight in his palm, sends it striking through the Moaners temple with a strangled yell. It goes limp over him, and for a moment he just lays there, gathering himself, before he finally pushes it off and clambers to his feet. The throbbing pain in his arm makes him wince, and he lifts his hand to the wound only to bring it away covered in blood. Fuck. 

Licking his lips, Bucky grabs at his shoulder and looks around- by some miracle he finds a rag lying forgotten on the ground that Sam had been using to wipe down the outside of the van earlier the day before, and he snatches it up in a hurry and ties it crudely around the chunk taken out of his arm. No time to dwell on it, he thinks, forcing himself to turn his attention to something else. Moaners need killing, and he’s still upright, so that means he’s still on the job. 

Clenching his teeth, Bucky transfers the machete over to the hand of his non-injured arm swipes it at the neck of the next dead bastard to look at him wrong. Dinah and Sam have finally joined the fight for good; Bucky can’t see Wanda and Peter, but he prays to whoever will listen they’re safe in the van, that no one else will fall victim to dead eyes and hungry mouths today. 

It’s finally over when the first rays of light dawn over the horizon. 

Frank holds the last of the Plagued against the ground with a foot to its neck, puts it down execution style with a bullet between the eyes and slumps when it’s done, whatever energy he had left vanishing between one second and the next. 

Bucky stumbles towards him, dropping his machete to the dirt and bending over with his hands on his knees to take a few seconds to breathe. He hears the crunching of grass and leaves to his left and glances up to see Dinah and Sam cautiously making their way over, and the leftover tenseness in his muscles releases with a harsh sigh. After a beat he makes himself stand, eyes surveying over the aftermath. 

Bodies litter the land around the cabin, blood soaking into the soil he’d trod on more times than he could count without a care in the world and a smile on his face. He catches sight of Natasha eventually- laying between a pile of Rotters and torn to shreds. Nothing is left of her belly, and one of her arms has been ripped away. Bucky hisses a sharp exhale through his nose and forces himself to avert his eyes. 

“Wanda and Peter…?” he croaks out, and Dinah nods softly. 

“They’re safe. Sam got them into the van,” she responds, and Bucky hangs his head in relief. 

“Are we all that’s left?” he asks a second later even though he’s not entirely sure he wants to know the answer. He needs to hear it anyway. 

“I-” Sam starts, then stops and closes his eyes for a moment to collect himself, “I think so.” 

Bucky closes his eyes as well, and takes a moment to mourn. He can feel the way his lip trembles and he clenches his jaw, locks it in tight. Later, when everyone is taken care of. 

“Hey,” a voice says in front of him, and he slips his eyes back open to see Frank stepping towards him with a face of concern. “Are you okay?” 

Bucky blinks, momentarily confused before he remembers the blood soaked rag wrapped around his arm and freezes. He doesn’t have the slightest idea of where to start, doesn’t know if he should come right out with it or wait until they’ve tallied up their loses, isn’t even sure if he should tell them at all. He doesn’t want to see the looks on their faces- on  _ Frank’s  _ face- when they realize he’s not much longer for this world, either. He’s saved from an explanation when Thor comes limping out of the trees. 

“My friends…” Thor starts, and Bucky hears Dinah gasp at his side. 

Thor is more than worse for wear- his entire left leg has been chewed clean to the bone, and he’s got another gash over his chest that’s soaking his entire shirt red with his blood. Sweat beads on his brow with the effort of making his way forwards, and eventually he gives in and leans against a tree not too far away. 

“Thor,” Sam says, but Thor lifts a hand and waves him off. 

“I know,” Thor says with a brittle weariness to his voice. “I tried to fend them off, but,” he huffs, letting his eyes slip closed as he tilts his head against the rough bark. “As you can see, they overpowered me.” 

A second later he reopens his eyes, leveling the others with a stare so intense it almost sends Bucky back a step. 

“I wanted to-” he sighs again, wavering, “I wanted to see who had made it through. And to tell you all goodbye.” 

It takes a moment to register, but when it does Bucky feels the color drain from his face, and he can see from the corner of his eye when Dinah puts a hand over her mouth. 

“Thor…” she says, and echo of Sam. Thor just shakes his head. 

“There is no saving me. I’d much rather spare you all the trouble of dealing with me yourselves than endanger any one of you when I turn.” 

Dinah’s hand slides up to cover her eyes and she bites her lip, and Bucky gets it, isn’t doing much better himself. 

“I am… sorry it has to be this way,” Thor continues, then does his best to muster a smile. “But know that I have enjoyed each of your company in the time I was able to share it with you. I appreciate all you’ve done for me, truly.” 

Sam rolls his lips and takes a second to look away, then nods, scrubbing a hand over his eyes. 

“The feeling is mutual. Don’t doubt that for a second,” he says, and Thor’s smile goes a little softer. 

“I never have,” he replies, and Sam sniffs and swipes a finger under his nose. 

Frank works his jaw, and after a beat he steps up, turning over his gun handle up when he’s close enough for Thor to grab it. Thor looks at him for a long lingering moment, then takes the gun and whispers a gentle, “Thank you.” 

Frank nods. 

“I’m sorry,” he mumbles, finally looking up at Thor’s face. 

“Don’t be,” Thor tells him, and raises a hand to pat against Frank’s shoulder. 

Frank nods again and turns his eyes away, and Thor looks back up and roves his gaze over the others, sends them another small smile and takes a step back. 

“We’ll see one another again, some day,” he tells them, and with a dip of the head, he turns and makes his way back into the woods. 

Frank walks back to Bucky’s side and reaches over to take ahold of Bucky’s hand. Bucky lets him, gripping it tight like a lifeline. He doesn’t even realize he’s crying until Frank brushes his thumb over Bucky’s cheek and it comes away wet, and Bucky blinks, sniffs and rubs the back of his hand over his eyes to try and wipe the tears from his skin. 

A moment later, a lone gunshot rings through the air, and Dinah collapses in on herself in a fit of sobs. Sam’s wrapping her up his arms instantly, pulling her into his chest to keep her close. 

All Bucky can feel is a sudden wave of terror that washes over him like a face full of cold water, and it clams him up, sends an animal panic running through his veins that gets his hands shaking and breathing galloping out of his chest in uneven pants. He doesn’t know what to do, can’t shake the sudden awful reality of his situation- the impending ending he knows he can’t avoid. He tries to swallow but his throat is too dry, and his body keeps telling him to  _ run, run, get away _ , so he does, taking a fumbling step backwards before dashing off in the direction of the cabin, hopping over fallen bodies as he goes and marching up the stairs to throw the door open and hide himself inside. 

It rattles shut behind him, and his hands raise to grip at the sides of his head, fingers digging into his hair and his skin like if he presses them deep enough it’ll hold him together. His teeth chatter, and after a moment he begins to pace the floor like a restless caged wolf, delving further and further into that dark hole in his mind, the  _ what if _ ’s and the terrifying possibilities, until he catches the sound of the door slamming back open and heavy boots pounding across the floor in his direction. He knows who it is before he even turns to look. 

“Bucky,” Frank says breathless, undoubtedly from running hot on Bucky’s tail after he’d taken off. 

Bucky sucks up a wobbly inhale and finally makes himself rotate around so he and Frank are face to face, but he avoids Frank’s eyes, can’t bare to meet the wild worry that buzzes around behind them when he’s already so full of his own. 

“Bucky,” Frank says again, and holds a gentle hand out as he takes a careful step forward. “Baby, what’s going on?” 

Bucky opens his mouth, but his jaw trembles and he snaps it shut and sinks his teeth deep into his bottom lip instead. Frank sees it, catches the glassy sheen to his eyes and takes another small step in Bucky’s direction. 

“Hey, hey, I’m right here- it’s alright, yeah?” he murmurs, trying his damndest to placate, and it’d work, if Bucky wasn’t so keyed up with fear. “Now I need you to tell me what’s wrong, okay, because after everything that just went down I need to make sure you’re fine. Please.” 

Bucky would scoff if he was in the right mindset to-  _ fine  _ is at the rock bottom of the list of things he’s currently feeling- but instead he just clenches his jaw, flexing his fingers at his side. The words won’t come, so he does the next best thing- he shows him. 

A trembling hand pulls away the rag, lets it drop to the floor in a heap, and Bucky peels back the sleeve of his flannel so Frank can get a good look at the jagged bite mark that adorns a good portion of his shoulder, still dribbling blood sluggishly down the pale skin of his arm and his hand to his fingers and finally falling with soft pitter-patters to the floor. Frank takes it all in, and Bucky watches the way his face falls when the gears start to really turn in his head. 

He says nothing, doesn’t look away from Bucky’s arm for the better half of a minute, and when he does his face is blank and his eyes are full of unshed tears. After a beat, he lifts his hand to his mouth, inhaling deeply while he tries to let the reality of it truly sink in, then runs it up over his face and through his hair. His other hand comes up to join it and they lace together behind his head, and Bucky can see then when Frank moves his head to glance away and the light from the window hits his face that he’s crying. 

“I- I don’t-” Frank starts, but his voice gives out halfway and he stops, lips twitching like a snarl, a futile attempt to keep himself from shattering. 

“I’m sorry,” is all Bucky can think of saying, and Frank’s shaking his head before the words even finish leaving his mouth. 

He looks back to Bucky, and Bucky finally meets his eyes, and for a moment they just stare, caught up in the gravity of it all. Bucky’s the one who finally breaks the silence, giving in to his emotions as he sniffs, swipes a thumb under his eyes and says in a broken voice, “I’m scared.” 

Frank’s face crumbles, and instantly he’s across the room and scooping Bucky into his arms. Bucky falls into his chest, wraps his own arms around Frank’s neck so tight he’s scared he’s cut off Frank’s ability to breathe, but Frank doesn’t seem bothered, only holds him closer in response. 

“I don’t,” Bucky sucks in a snotty breath, “I don’t know what to do. I’m not- I can’t- I can’t pull that trigger like Thor, Frank, I’m not that strong, I fucking  _ can’t- _ ” 

“Hey,” Frank says harshly, turning his lips against Bucky’s ear. “You remember what I told you? It’s not about being strong, you understand? That’s being  _ human _ . Don’t you even think for a second about kicking yourself in the balls because you don’t want to kill yourself, you got that? Don’t do it. After all you’ve been through, I think you just might be the strongest, toughest motherfucker I’ve ever met. And that’s coming from a marine; you know I don’t sugarcoat shit.” 

It gets Bucky to huff a small, watery chuckle into Frank’s neck, and he nods. Frank runs a hand up and down Bucky’s back, keeps pressing kisses against the side of Bucky’s head and into his hair, and Bucky lets himself sink into the feeling. Forget the shit show all around him even if just for a second to lose himself in Frank’s smell and the steady sound of his breathing. 

“Let’s sit down, yeah?” Frank says after a bit, and gently pulls Bucky to usher him onto the couch. He sits himself down to Bucky’s left and rests his hand on Bucky’s knee, rubbing his thumb back in forth against the gritty, worn fabric of his jeans. Bucky’s almost hypnotized by it.

“Sam and Dinah are out waiting by the van,” Frank tells him, and Bucky lifts his head to glance at him. “They’ve got some supplies in the back, at least enough for the next few weeks. They’re ready to go.” 

Bucky moves his eyes to the floor between his feet and nods, tapping a finger against his lips. It’s not like he didn’t expect it. Even with all the Plagued outside dead, the lake isn’t safe, not anymore. The only choice is to move onward. Search for somewhere new and start the cycle up all over again. Bucky mushes his chin into his hand. He’s not entirely sure if he can take it, finding a home only to lose it again, if he even makes it that long in the first place. 

“What do you want to do?” Frank asks a beat later, and Bucky tilts his head and looks at him.

-

Frank feels the eyes on him when he exits the cabin and makes his way down the stairs, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his jacket. Dinah pushes herself away from where she’d been leaning against the front of the van, and Sam slips out of the open drivers seat door when Frank approaches. 

“Is everything alright?” Dinah asks, and Frank licks his lips. He takes a moment, but eventually he comes out and says it, no use waiting around like it’d change the circumstances. 

“Bucky’s been bit,” he tells them, and it comes off his tongue as smooth as a key out of a sticky lock, doesn’t get any easier even after the time he’s had to process it. Dinah goes white, and Sam closes his eyes and rubs his palm against his forehead, lips drawn into a thin line. 

“I’m… I’m sure we can at least get him to a safer place before anything starts to get bad-” Dinah tries a minute later, but Frank shakes his head and stops her in her tracks. 

“You need to go ahead,” he says, and Sam drops his hand and looks at him like he’s grown a second head. 

“You can’t be serious.” 

Frank shrugs, and the look on his face is as serious as he’s ever been. 

“You’ve got the kids in the back? You take them far away from here, get them to a good place where they don’t have to sleep with one eye open,” he continues. 

Dinah sends him a blatantly shocked look, like she’s stunned at the mere idea of leaving them behind. She voices it just as loudly as the expression on her face. 

“We’re not just going to take off and leave you two here. Bucky’s  _ sick _ .” 

“And that’s exactly why we’re staying,” Frank says, and Dinah closes her mouth on whatever else she was planning to add. “It’s like Thor said- there’s no saving him. And we’re not jeopardizing the rest of you after the shit storm you just managed to dodge. This is the best option. The safest option.” 

“You sound just like Steve,” Sam mumbles, and Frank huffs a little laugh. 

“Yeah, well. Guess he rubbed off on me.” 

Sam leans against the side of the van, running a hand over his mouth. “He had a way of getting under people’s skin.” 

Frank dips his head, and they all take a moment to grieve. Dinah sighs, wiping a hand against her nose, and Frank spares her a glance. She looks back to him with a dragging tiredness that tugs at the corners of her mouth, and he shoots her a sympathetic look. 

“Go,” he says softly, nudging his shoulder at the van. “Carry on for the ones that couldn’t, okay? Bucky and I will be alright.” 

Dinah’s shoulders sag and she tilts her head a little as she levels him with a pleading stare, almost begging him to change his mind, but when she realizes he won’t she sighs and relents, turning to Sam. They share a silent conversation, and in the end Sam nods and turns his eyes to Frank while Dinah moves around to climb into the passenger side seat. 

“You sure about this?” Sam asks just to be sure, and Frank nods, never been more sure in his life. Sam huffs through his nose and gives a little shake of his head, patting his hand against the van door.

“Good luck,” he tells him, and Frank flicks the corner of his mouth up into a little smile. 

“You too,” he says back, and watches Sam settle himself into the driver’s seat and slam the door shut. 

Frank turns and starts making his way back to the cabin while the engine rumbles to life, and he doesn’t bother glancing over his shoulder to watch them pull away. He climbs up the front stairs instead and opens the door, ducking inside and letting it swing shut behind him.

-

Bucky’s state worsens quickly as the days progress. His skin turns sallow and pale, and bruises circle around his sunken eyes and make him look like he went twelve rounds in the ring. Frank wipes a damp cloth over his sweat slick forehead; he can feel the heat rising from Bucky’s skin even through the material, and he barely manages to hide his grimace. 

Bucky exhales a trembling, weak breath that stutters off into a cough that hitches on a gag, and Frank grabs the stained bucket that’s become a permanent fixture beside the couch right in time for Bucky to double over and heave. What comes out of him is black and curdled- his insides are rotting away, Frank’s seen it more times than he wished, and every time it happens it tightens that knot of dread a little more in his stomach until it feels like it’s going to strangle him. 

Bucky retches, then spits out a chunk that got wedged behind his teeth and collapses back against the pillows Frank had piled up for him. He whimpers a little out of discomfort and Frank hushes him, patting the cloth against his cheeks. 

“It’s okay,” he whispers despite all evidence to the contrary. Despite the fact he’s watching the man he loves dying before his eyes. 

Bucky shifts and tries to settle himself, then lolls his head to face Frank and tips his lips up on a tired laugh. 

“Feels like when my ma used to take care of me when I was home from school with the flu,” he rasps. 

Frank chuckles, smoothing a hand through Bucky’s hair, and Bucky closes his eyes at the feeling. 

“Yeah, well, you’re doing better than my kids. At least you haven’t puked on me yet.” 

“Never say never,” Bucky mumbles, and slowly but surely, he drifts into a doze. It’s been happening more often recently- his body can’t handle the stress of the illness rampaging through him and shuts him down for hours at a time, and when he comes to it’s a crapshoot if he’ll even be lucid enough to make an attempt at a conversation. Frank doesn’t care, never wavers from his side for a second unless it’s for something Bucky needs. His back is killing him from sleeping on the floor, as are his knees from kneeling, but Frank would spend a lifetime against the hard wood if that’s what it takes to make sure he does all he can to keep Bucky going for as long as he can manage. 

He presses a kiss against Bucky’s burning hairline and settles back against the base of the couch. 

Bucky wakes a few more times through the day and once in the night, but it’s not until the next morning he truly comes back around. Frank offers him some broth that he refuses, but he takes a few sips of water from one of the last bottles left with some coaxing, then pushes himself up to sit a little straighter. 

“You should go with them,” He tells Frank, and Frank furrows his brows. “After. I’m sure they didn’t go far- probably would be happy to see you.” 

It takes a moment for Frank to get what he’s talking about, but when he does he sighs and gives a vague little shake of his head. 

“You need to go live your life,” Bucky presses when he sees it. Frank crouches down beside him so that they’re eye level and reaches out to push away the wet hairs from Bucky’s clammy forehead. 

“My life is with you,” he says, and Bucky huffs, but something in his weary eyes goes soft and he doesn’t try to argue. Instead he just leans back into his pillows and tips his head into the plush support of them, letting out a heavy breath as he lets his eyes slip closed. He doesn’t sleep, but they’re silent for a good long while. 

Frank feels hyper-fixated to his presence, the space he occupies and every little gentle stir of his body. He knows when Bucky’s going to start hacking up a lung before he even does, and quickly thrusts the bottle of water under his chin to try and soothe the sting in his throat. 

“Thanks,” Bucky croaks, dribbling a little into his mouth to swallow. Frank watches him, leans in to gently press his lips against Bucky’s arm. Bucky smiles and hands him back the bottle, and after a few seconds pass he suddenly says, “You ever think about when we first met?” 

Frank tilts his head to look up at him and hums. 

“You threatened to shoot me in the face,” Bucky continues, and it tapers off into a raspy chuckle. 

Frank smiles himself, wandering back in time to that moment in his mind. It’s surreal to think about, looking at the man before him now- how he’d once looked to him as nothing but extra baggage to carry and now would burn down the world just to see him grin. 

“We’ve come a long way,” Bucky adds a moment later, giving voice to Frank’s thoughts. He twists his neck to face Frank and levels him with such a gentle, tender expression Frank could melt with it. 

“No one I’d rather go through it with, though,” he says, and Frank can’t stop that grin on his lips from growing a little wider, huffs a tiny laugh when Bucky’s does the same. 

“Feeling’s mutual,” Frank tells him and reaches to take his hand, and he means it so fiercely his entire body burns with it. 

Bucky lolls his head back to stare up at the ceiling, running a feeble thumb in sweeping motions along the back of Frank’s hand. 

“That night,” he starts, pausing to cough into the crook of his other arm, and Frank gives his hand a worried squeeze. “When you showed me that picture of Maria and the kids, and you looked at me with all this- vulnerability, and trust. That’s when I knew.” 

He glances back to Frank then, carrying the world behind his eyes. 

“That’s when I knew I loved you.” 

It shakes Frank to his very core, and he has to move his gaze away for a second to keep his carefully built walls from crumbling around him, can’t let Bucky see him weak when Bucky needs him to be strong now more than ever. After a beat he nods, and says, “Yeah,” then looks back up, licks his lips. 

“Yeah, that night. That night’s when I realized. I looked at you, you know, I think I really looked at you for the first time and thought to myself, ‘this one’s special. This guy right here, this pain in my ass,” Bucky laughs, and the smile stays on his face despite the coughing fit that wracks his body because of it. “‘He’s gonna help me get through this. He’s gonna be something good’.” 

Bucky watches him fondly and raises their hands, arm trembling with the effort, to place a lingering kiss to Frank’s knuckles. Frank savors the feeling, burns it deep into his brain to last a lifetime and beyond. 

“You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me,” Bucky whispers, and Frank about loses it then and there. 

He sucks in a shaky breath and looks Bucky right in the eye when he nods again, clutching his hand as tight as he can without hurting him. 

“You too, yeah?” Frank replies, just as hushed. “You too.” 

Bucky practically beams, sinking deeper into the pillows. He lets out a wheezing exhale and turns his head back to face straight and gaze off into space, but Frank’s eyes never once leave his profile. He studies the curve of Bucky’s lips, the slope of his nose and the ridges of his cheeks. He’s never been one for art- it was always more Lisa’s thing- but looking at Bucky now, he sees why people spent years, decades of their lives immortalizing people on canvas and in stone. 

He wastes a few minutes like that, and eventually he props himself up a little more on his knees and tips forward so he can rest his mouth lightly against Bucky’s temple. The fever is almost unbearable even for him, and he takes a second to close his eyes and breathe in nice and deep, tries not to think about the inevitable. Bucky subconsciously tilts his head into Frank’s touch and sighs, then hunches forward on a heavy, wet cough. Frank rubs his back the whole way through, and Bucky slumps backwards when it’s over; Frank can’t deny it any longer, Bucky looks absolutely terrible. His entire body is shaking like a leaf in the wind, and he’s barely able to support his own head by himself, so weak it looks like the simple act of lifting his chest on a breath is causing him strain. Frank runs his palm from his hairline down to the back of his neck and kisses his temple again, and Bucky huffs softly. 

“Love you,” Bucky grates out in a ruined voice. Frank mumbles back the sentiment, and he feels Bucky attempt to muster another smile at it. 

“See you on the other side,” he adds after a bit, and Frank wants to respond back, wants to ask him what he means, he’s not going anywhere-  _ denial, denial, denial _ \- when he feels Bucky go slack against him. 

He freezes, eyes wide and wild, and the overwhelming terror that washes over him is almost like nothing he’s ever felt before. 

He can’t force his muscles to so much as twitch no matter how hard he tries, and his mind is running a mile a minute in every direction, but eventually his body cooperates and he moves, scrambling back so he can get a good look at Bucky’s face. 

He catches Bucky’s head when it flops to the side without Frank there to support it, cradling it between his hands so delicately it’s like Frank’s scared he’ll break him, and when he meets Bucky’s eyes they’re foggy and unseeing. Frank starts to tremble, and his mouth gapes, opening and closing like a fish. He can’t stop the tears that gather in his eyes, wouldn’t give a shit even if he could, and they spill unhindered down his cheeks as he stares at Bucky’s unresponsive body laying limp against the couch in front of him. 

“No,” Frank mumbles, half-hysterical, “No, no, no, no, hey, c’mon, please, please.” 

He rubs his thumb against Bucky’s gaunt cheek, and Bucky’s head is shaking with the force of the tremors in Frank’s hands. 

“Don’t- I can’t- baby- Bucky, please,” Frank begs, doesn’t even know what he’s pleading for, it all tumbles from his mouth like water from a faucet, as frayed and raw as he feels as his body hitches on a wet sob. 

“No,” Frank cries again, then, finally, shatters, yelling, “NO! NO!” as he hunches over Bucky’s lifeless form and wails. 

-

Frank sits numbly on the floor beside the couch with his arms resting over his bent knees, a pistol- the last in the cabin- held in a loose grip in his right hand. His finger taps mindlessly against the side of it, and it’s the only sound in the room besides his ragged pants. 

It’s been three hours now, only one since he finally pried himself away from Bucky’s body and moved away to go looking for the gun, and he feels empty. Charred and blackened from the inside out, a hollow shell- the last of the tears he’d shed carrying away whatever emotion was left in him that wasn’t an all consuming, aching pain. He works his jaw as he stares forward at the wall before him, and the rhythm he’s making against the side of the gun gets a little harsher, a little more wild. He’s had thoughts- put the muzzle to his temple, shove the barrel in his mouth- but he stays strong, and he waits. 

He doesn’t have to wait for much longer. 

Something joins in with the sound of his tapping, wheezing and weak at his side, and Frank pauses, strains his ears to listen. 

Breathing. 

He hesitates, doesn’t know if he really wants to look, but a beat later he does anyway. 

Bucky’s chest rises and falls so vaguely Frank has to squint to make sure it’s not a trick of the eyes, and when he sees it something shoots a tingly feeling through his chest into his belly and out through his arms and legs. After a second, Bucky’s body jerks like a marionette on strings, fingers twitching, jaw clenching, and he lets out a low, gravely moan. Frank shifts onto his knees and shuffles to Bucky’s side, and when Bucky hears him he slowly tilts his head to look. 

“Hey,” Frank says, feather light like Bucky’s a wild animal he’s scared he’s going to spook. Bucky’s glazed eyes follow his every move, and Frank reaches a hand forward to place it against Bucky’s cool cheek. 

“Hey,” he says again, and sniffs. “I’m so sorry.” Frank runs his tongue over his lips and hiccups on a little leftover sob. “I’m so, so sorry. I love you, yeah? I love you so goddamn much I don’t know what to do with myself, and I’m- I’m so fucking sorry.” 

Bucky looks at him and hisses a raspy little noise in the back of his shredded throat, starts to lean forwards toward him with his mouth gaping open and his lips twitching on a snarl. Frank’s face crumples for a second, but he reels it back in and holds Bucky as still as he can with the hand on the side of his cheek. The sounds Bucky’s making get a little louder and more irritable, and Frank, after a moment of contemplation, steels himself and lifts his left arm up near Bucky’s mouth. 

“It’s okay,” he says softly, and Bucky growls. “It’s okay.” 

His grip on the side of Bucky’s face slackens and Bucky takes the leeway to pitch forward and bury his teeth into Frank’s forearm. Frank hisses and fights back the urge to shove him away, lets him get in good and deep before finally forcing him back, taking a good chunk of his flesh with him as he goes. 

“ _ Shit _ ,” Frank curses, clambering to his feet and and making a hasty retreat to the back corner of the room. 

Bucky follows at a slower pace, lifting himself off of the couch on wobbly legs with his shoulders hunched and his pale eyes hooded. Frank never moves his gaze from Bucky’s shuffling form for a second and flicks off the safety on the gun, pressing it up against his own left breast with a shaky hand. He swallows harshly, breathing out sharp and quick through his nose as Bucky shambles closer. 

“See you on the other side,” Frank chokes out, and pulls the trigger.

-

He blinks.

The world swirls in blurry colors around him, reds and oranges and yellows and blues. 

He blinks again, then again until it becomes clearer and he can finally make out what he’s looking at. 

Wood- a wood ceiling, and a figure looming over him staring down as if they’d been waiting for him to wake. Frank parts his lips, and breathes a tiny groan. The figure above him stirs and grunts back, and once Frank finds the strength he flops around and manages to push himself up to his feet. He stumbles a little, disoriented- everything is choppy and ragged, like a movie with missing scenes- then looks around at the room he’s found himself in, gaze roving before it finally lands on the figure standing beside him. 

He knows that face. He’d know it in a crowd of things like them, despite the blood splattered over the other’s mouth and the sunken, glassy eyes that peer from beneath a wiry fringe of hair, and the very sight of it draws him in like a beacon, a moth to a flame. 

Bucky looks to him curiously, studying him with his head tilted just barely to the side. Frank mimics him, and after a beat Bucky twitches and takes a jerky step forwards, so Frank does too, one foot and then the other until they’re all squished up into each others space. 

Bucky exhales a raspy little breath and tips his chin down, and Frank responds by leaning in until their foreheads bump together clumsily. It’s animal instinct, something that gnaws at the very basic functioning of his brain- the need for them to be close. It’s as all consuming as the hunger that picks away at his empty stomach, and his hand twitches at his side, motions forward in a fleeting gesture, and Bucky’s own swings towards it until their fingers brush. 

Frank sighs, trying his hardest to hook their fingers together, and bathes himself in what he can only comprehend as a feeling of something so purely  _ right  _ it settles deep into the very marrow of his bones like it makes up the essence of who he is. What he’s meant to be. 

No more worry, no more time wasted on fear, just an eternity spent lost in Bucky’s eyes and knowing he’s where he was supposed to end up all along. That he is safe, finally. 

He is home.

Fin.

**Author's Note:**

> The playlist that I kept on repeat while writing this fic is [here](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/1gpjB4U7IfQ8P7TSWdMltP?si=9Fv--gmdToWp6fCgYrLj4g)


End file.
